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THE   BOOK   OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE 
SHORT  STORY 


EDITED  BY 


■A- 


ALEXANDER  JESSUP 

>  EDITOR   OF   LITTLE   FRENCH   MASTERPIECES,   ETC. 

AND 

HENRY   SEIDEL    CANBY 

ASSISTANT  PROFESSOR   OF   ENGLISH  IN  THE  SHEFFIELD 
SCIENTIFIC  SCHOOL,   YALE  UNIVERSITY 


NEW    YORK    AND     LONDON 

D.    APPLETON     AND     COMPANY 

1918 


05f 


COPVRICHT,   T903 

Bv  D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


PRINTED  AT  ".HE  APPLETOr  fR^Sfi,' 
NEW  YOJUC,  V.  S.  A. 

-  t   *    t  '  t      »  . 


ACkNOWLEDGME. 


Rip  Van  Winkle  is  republished  in  this 
the  permission  of  Messrs.  G.  P.  Putnam's  Soi 
thorised   publishers   of   Washington    Irving's    co. 
works.  ^Thanks  are  due  the  same  pubHshers  for  per- 
mission to  use  their  text  of  The  Cask  of  Amontillado, 
from  their  edition  of  the  works  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe. 
The   Birthmark   is   used  by  special  arrangement   with, 
and  the  permission  of,   Messrs.   Houghton,  Mifflin   & 
Co.,  the  authorised  publishers  of  the  complete  works 
of  Nathaniel  Hawthorne.    The  Taking  of  the  Redoubt, 
La  Grande  Breteche,  and  A  Coward,  copyrighted,  1903, 
by  Messrs.  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons,  and  here  used  by  spe- 
cial arrangement  and  permission,  are  taken  from  the 
Merimee,  Balzac,  and  Maupassant  volumes  of  their  Lit- 
tle French  Masterpieces  series. 

Thanks  are  due  Prof.  Wilbur  L.  Cross,  of  the  Shef- 
field Scientific  School  of  Yale  University,  and  Prof. 
Curtis  Hidden  Page,  of  Dartmouth  College,  for  val- 
uable assistance  in  the  latter  portion  of  the  work. 
Thanks  are  also  due  Prof.  Albert  S.  Cook,  of  Yale  Uni- 
versity, Mr.  Nathan  Haskell  Dole,  and  Mr.  Charles 
Harvey  Genung,  for  helpful  advice  and  assistance.  The 
Introduction  to  this  volume  first  appeared  as  a  separate 
paper  in  the  series  of  Yale  Studies  in  English  edited  by 
Prof.  Albert  S.  Cook,  and  is  the  work  of  Prof.  Henry 
S.  Canby.    It  is  here  published  in  a  largely  revised  form. 

The  Editors. 

V 

42 08 77 


CONTENTS 


Introduction 


The  Shipwrecked  Sailor.     About  250.0  b.  c. 

From  an  Egyptian  Papyrus  of  the  Xllth  Dynasty 


The  Book  of  Ruth.      Abqut  450  b.  c 

Bible. 

The  Story  of  Cupid  and  Psyche.     2d  century  a.  d. 

Apuleius. 

Frederick  of  the  Alberighi  and  His  Falcon.^  1353 

Boccaccio.   ^ 

The    Story     of     Ali     Baba,    and     the     Forty     Robbers 
Destroyed  by  a  Slave.     1548    .... 

Tfu  Thousand  and  One  Nights. 

The  Liberal  Lover.     1613        .        .        .  ' 

Ce7i>anies.  ^ 

The  Apparition  of  Mrs.  Veal.     1706     . 

Defoe. 


Jeannot  and  Colin.     1764? 

Vo^tui^: '  1/ 

Rip  Van  Winkle.     1819     , 

Washington  Irving. 

Wandering  Willie's  Tale.     1824    . 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 

The  Taking  of  the  Redoubt.     1829 

Prosper  Merimee. '  V 


PAGE 
I 

31 

43 

55 
79ir 

91 

129 

193 

213 
229 

255 
281 


viii  CONTENTS 

PAGB 

La  Grande  BRExicHE.     1832 293 

Honori  de  Balzac.      j/ 

The  Birthmark.     1843 321 

Nathaniel  Hatothorne.        ^ 

The  Cask  of  Amontillado.     1846 345 

Edgar  Allan  Poe.  j/ 

A  Lear  of  the  Steppes.     1870        .        .        .        .        .        .359 

Ivan   Turgeneff. 

Markheim.     1885 ,        ,        .        .    441 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson.     ^ 

A  Coward.     1885 463 

Guy  de  Maufassant,  ^ 

Without  Benefit  of  Clergy.     1890 481 

Rudyard  Kipling.  / 

A  List  of  Representative  Tales  and  Short  Stories 

29.  41.  53.  77.  89,  127,  191.  an,  227,  253,  279,  291, 

319,  34.-*-  357,  439.  463,  479 


Il^TRODUCTION 


THE   SHORT   STORY 


THE  SHORT  STORY  AND  THE  TALE 

\  Tales,  short  narratives,  usually  of  one  event,  have 
existed  of  course  since  man  first  felt  the  need  of  turn- 
ing actual  or  imagined  happenings  into  words.  Their 
development  from  the  stories  of  the  Egyptian  papyri,  or 
the  fables  of  Pilpay,  or  whatever  beginning  one  is 
pleased  to  take,  has  been  that  of  narrative  in  general, 
and  in  each  literary  period  before  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury the  short  story  ^  differs  from  the  long  principally  in 
the  matter  of  length,  although  a  didactic  purpose,  which 
will  be  found  much  more  frequently  in  the  briefer  va- 

*  The  term  short  story  seems  to  have  taken  to  itself  a  meaning  only 
partially  indicated  by  the  adjective  short.  For  the  sake  of  clearness  in 
language,  it  is  essential  that  the  use  of  this  expression  as  a  symbol  should 
first  be  made  clear,  and  then  justified.  Such  is  the  purpose  of  this  dis- 
cussion, and  the  attempt  will  demand  a  plain  statement  of  that  which 
differentiates  the  Short  Story  from  the  novel  and  from  the  narrative 
which  happens  to  be  merely  short.  For  this  last  I  shall  henceforth  in  this 
essay  use  the  word  tale,  and  1  shall  use  short  story  for  all  short  narratives 
which  differ  in  form  or  in  substance  from  the  novel,  romance,  or  other  long 
stories,  and  keep  Short  Story  for  a  nineteenth  century  development  in 
which,  for  reasons  to  be  explained  in  the  following  pages,  this  difference 
is  sharper  and  more  readily  defined.  For  a  more  extensive  discussion 
of  the  whole  subject,  with  a  distinction  between  short  and  long  narra- 
tives in  earlier  periods  which  is  somewhat  different  from  the  one  sug- 
gested in  this  essay,  consult  The  Short  Story  in  English  (Henry  Holt  & 
Co.,  1909),  by  the  author  of  this  introduction. 

3 


4        THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY  . 

liefty; '  tciif  'tauSe  some  divergence  in  the  selection  and 
use  of  incident,  and  thus  in  the  form  of  the  story.  But, 
as  a  rule,  one  takes  an  episode,  the  other  ten,  or  conden- 
sation makes  the  difference  between  them. 

It  is  possible  to  select  a  few  typical  stories  among  the 
famous  tales  of  past  times.  The  Cupid  and  Psyche  of 
The  Golden  Ass  of  Apuleius  is  perhaps  the  best  example 
of  the  classic,  and  Ruth  of  the  Biblical.  For  one  type 
of  the  mediaeval,  Frederick  of  the  Alberighi  and  His 
Falcon,  of  The  Decameron ;  and  for  another.  Amis  and 
Amile  are  representative;  and  Cervantes's  The  Liberal 
Lover,  of  the  seventeenth  century,  will  stand  for  that 
period.  Do  these  differ  in  genre  from  longer  stories  of 
their  times,  from  Daphnis  and  Chloe,  from  Reynard  the 
Fox,  from  the  prose  romances  of  chivalry,  from  Scu- 
dery's  Grand  Cyrus?  Scarcely,  for  they  are  all  simple 
narrative,  designed  first  of  all  to  tell  a  story.  In  one 
case  the  plot  is  more  compact,  or  perhaps  there  is  but 
one  main  episode;  or  there  is  condensation,  and,  seem- 
ingly, no  other  important  distinction. 

And  this  is  illustrated  by  The  Book  of  Ruth,  one  of 
the  best-told  and  most  beautiful  stories*  m  all  literature. 
It  is  simple  narrative,  which,  hke  histo^,  purports  to 
select  from  the  events  supposed  to  have  happened  all 
those  necessary  to  give  a  true  account  of  the  episode. 
In  spite  of  the  perfect  unity  of  the  story,  this  method 
might  readily  be  continued,  in  such  a  way  that  our  tale, 
without  change,  should  become  the  first  chapter  in  a 
longer  narrative;  and,  supposing  for  an  instant  that  the 
contemporary  novel  were  in  question,  might  take  a  dif- 
ferent and  a  wider  view,  and  illustrate  very  probably  the 
evil  results  of  the  hasty  marriage  of  Boaz  and  Ruth. 

The  plot  of  Cupid  and  Psyche  is  more  extensive  than 
that  of  Ruth,  and  covers  a  greater  period  of  time ;  but  it, 
too,  is  a  simple  product  of  selection  on  the  author's  part 
from  a  certain  amount  of  imagined  incident.  If  he  had 
cut  out  less,  or  added  more  episodes,  the  story  would 


INTRODUCTION  5 

have  been  a  long  one ;  thus  the  actual  tale  is  merely  a 
condensatioa  of  a  hypothetical  narrative  of  greater 
length.  Successful  condensation,  to  be  sure,  requires  an 
art  of  its  own,  a  very  nice  choice  of  incident  and  a  very 
efficient  setting  forth  of  character;  but  that  is  scarcely 
enough  to  supply  a  dividing  line  between  the  long  story 
and  the  short  tale. 

Nor  is  it  easy  to  foist  a  definition  upon  the  stories 
of  intrigue,  the  novelle  and  the  fabliaux  of  the  Middle 
Ages,  and  to  tell  when  they  differ  from  an  incident,  let  us 
say,  in  a  picaresque  novel.  In  Boccaccio's  Frederick  of 
the  Alberighi  and  His  Falcon  the  treatment  is  not  alto- 
gether natural,  and  the  conception  of  self-sacrifiGing 
devotion  serves  principally  to  make  the  plot  go.  The 
friendship  of  Amis  and  Amile  is  a  like  impelling  force, 
and  there  are  aozens  of  stories  in  The  Decameron,  and 
in  the  Gesta  Romanorum  and  Hke  collections  which  are 
skeletons  merely^  But  pad  put  with  details,  construct  an 
extension  at  either  end,  and  you  have  a  novel  of  the 
Smollett  type  without  change  of  form.  Select  certain 
*'  dovetailable  ''  stories  from  The  Decameron,  clip  off 
the  first  and  mst  paragraphs,  normalise  th^  principal 
characters,  and  one  can  obtain  a  structure  with  a  notable 
resemblance  to  certain  portions  of  Gil  Bias,  or  Humphrey 
Clinker,  minus  the  general  reflections.  A  clever  writer 
could  smuggle  half  a  dozen  Italian  novelle  into  Nash's 
Jack  Wilton  or  Smollett's  Roderick  Random. 

What  has  been  said  of  Ruth  will  apply  to  the  eight- 
eenth century  tale,  although  the  short  narratives  which 
are  to  be  found  scattered  through  the  pages  of  The  Spec- 
tator, The  Guardian,  and  other  periodical  publications  of 
the  age  may  be  noted  as  partial  exceptions.  These  sto- 
ries, as  M r^  Walt er ^I orxis4iaj;]l:  points  out  in  his  essay 
on  Hawthorne  and  the  Short  Stbry,  are  a  development 
of  the  periodical  essay.  They  are  intended  to  illustrate 
concretely  what  the  essay  might  faillto  explain  as  well  by 
general  exposition.     Upon  this  assumption  he  proceeds 


6       THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

to  derive  the  Short  Story  from  the  periodical  essay,  and 
with  his  conclusion  I  shall  have  to  do  later.  But  the 
point  to  be  emphasised  here  is  that  while  these  stories  are 
intended  to  make  an  explanation  more  telling,  and  there- 
fore have  a  purpose  beyond  that  of  simple  narrative, 
they  may  be  detached  from  their  context,  and  this  pur- 
pose excluded.  They  then  become  simple  tales,  although 
the  selection  of  incident  will  here  lead  towards  the  expo- 
sition of  the  point  to  be  made,  just  as  in  the  intrigue 
stories  it  favours  the  development  of  the  plot.  So.it  is 
with  Voltaire's  Jeannot  and  Colin,  so  with  Christ's  par- 
ables, or  the  moralised  beast-tales,  and  with  all  fables, 
which,  throughout  the  ages,  have  been  told  with  a  more 
or  less  didactic  purpose.  These  eighteenth  century 
stories  are  all  more  or  less  of  the  same  type,  but  they 
constitute  no  new  development  in  literature.  To  select 
'a  few  at  random,  the  Letter  from  Octavia  Complaining 
of  the  Ingratitude  of  her  Husband,  which  is  No.  322  of 
The  Spectator,  is  a  good  example,  whose  text  is  the  in- 
advisability  of  marrying  a  man  above  you ;  as  that  of  the 
Letter  from  Sir  John  Envil,  Married  to  a  Woman  of 
Quality,  No.  299  in  the  same  periodical,  is  the  incon- 
venience of  marrying  a  woman  of  greater  rank  than 
yourself.  Both  of  these,  apart  from  their  explanatory 
introduction,  are  simple  tales  requiring  no  moral  reflec- 
tion, just  as  Ruth  does  not  require  that  one  should  say, 
at  the  end :  "  This  shows  that  one  should  be  humble  in 
mind."  These  tales  always  tend  to  run  beyond  that 
which  is  necessary  for  the  argument.  The  Story  of 
Theodosius  and  Constantine,  No.  164  of  The  Spectator, 
is  such  a  narrative,  and  Dr.  Langhorne  expanded  this 
into  a  collection  of  letters  filling  two  volumes.  Indeed, 
these  tales  may  be  easily  fitted  into,  or  abstracted  from, 
the  longer  stories  of  the  time.  You  cannot  precisely  cut 
up  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield  into  a  certain  number  of  Spec- 
tator stories,  because  The  Vicar  is  a  novel,  and  there  are 
certain  diflFerences  in  structure  and  treatment,  but  it  is 


INTRODUCTION  7 

possible  to  extract  a  number  of  tales  therefrom,  leaving 
a  residue  of  piecing  and  filling.  One  such  tale  would  be 
the  trip  to  the  fair,  in  which  Moses  bought  a  gross  of 
green  spectacles ;  another,  the  intrigue  between  OHvia 
and  Mr.  Thornhill;  the  story  of  George  Primrose's 
travels  would  be  still  another ;  and,  by  selection  and  con- 
densation, enough  narratives  to  furnish  forth  many 
Spectators  could  easily  be  provided,  while  the  moral  re- 
flections to  precede  them  might  be  found  in  the  same 
text,  tjenerally  speaking,  then,  there  would  seem  to  be 
no  generic  distinction  in  narrative  before  the  nineteenth 
century  other  than  narrative  short  and  long,  tales  of 
many  episodes  and  tales  of  one,  with  a  partial  exception 
for  fables  and  such  didactic  tales ;  and  with  this  qualifica- 
tion, that  in  the  novelle  there  is  a  compactness  of  plot, 
a  certain  husbandry  of  words  and  choice  of  incident 
which  indicates  a  consciousness  of  the  necessity  of  doing 
a  great  deal  in  a  little  space.  It  is  partly  this  realisation, 
with  a  conception  of  the  power  of  brevity,  that  has  led  to 
the  mechanical  development  of  the  Short  Story. 

If  what  has  been  said  so  far  be  taken  to  indicate  that 
the  ancient  family  of  tales  possesses  no  fundamental  dis- 
tinction except  length,  and  sometimes  a  certain  point  of 
view,  to  set  apart  its  members  from  narrative  in  general, 
then,  in  order  to  discover  any  originality  in  the  Short 
Story,  it  is  necessary  to  find  a  real  difference  between 
Ruth,  a  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  paper,  or  Ali  Baba  and 
the  Forty  Robbers,  and  Markheim,  A  Coward,»or  The 
Real  Thing.  The  difference  is  easily  felt  by  the  reader; 
but  the  question  remains,  is  it  merely  mechanical  and  due 
to  a  more  dramatic  structure,  or  is  it  of  deeper  origin  ? 

Early  in  the  nineteenth  century,  Washington  Irving 
began  the  publication  of  short  tales  possessing  greater 
merit  than  any  hitherto  produced  in  America.  These 
stories  were  modelled,  presumably,  upon  some  of  The 
Spectator  papers,  and  resemble  them  in  form.  They  are 
tales  still,  in  that  their  purpose  is  simply  narrative,  but 


8        THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

in  careful  workmanship  and  conscious  art  they  more 
closely  approximate  to  the  modern  Short  Story  form. 
Irving's  attitude  towards  the  children  of  his  fancy  could 
not  have  been  far  different  from  that  of  Boccaccio  or 
of  Chaucer.  He  says,  in  his  introduction  to  the  Tales  of 
a  Traveler :  **  For  my  part,  I  consider  a  story  merely  as 
a  frame  upon  which  to  stretch  my  materials.  It  is  the 
play  of  thought,  and  sentiment,  and  language ;  the  weav- 
ing in  of  characters,  Hghtly,  yet  expressively  delineated ; 
the  familiar  and  faithful  exhibition  of  scenes  in  common 
life ;  and  the  half-concealed  vein  of  humour  that  is  often 
playing  through  the  whole — these  are  among  what  I  aim 
at,  and  upon  which  I  felicitate  myself  in  proportion  as 
I  think  I  succeed." 

Let  us  take  his  story,  The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow, 
which  is  an  excellent  result  of  such  a  process,  and  com- 
pare it  with  Hawthorne's  The  White  Old  Maid,  a  Short 
Story  in  which  the  element  I  wish  to  bring  forward  is 
slightly  exaggerated,  and  therefore  well  fitted  for  our  pur- 
pose. The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow,  like  Ruth,  is  a  story 
of  a  simple  episode ;  although,  in  the  complicated  plot, 
the  emphasis  placed  upon  the  denouement,  and  the  vivid 
description,  it  betrays  much  more  conscious  art.  But 
what  is  the  impression  of  the  reader?  It  can  scarcely  be 
called  an  impression,  although  there  are  distinct  pic- 
tures arising  from  the  vividness  of  the  narrative;  it  is 
rather  a  memory  of  a  series  of  events,  and  to  produce 
such  acecord  is  the  aim  of  simple  narrative.  What  ma- 
chinery there  is  in  the  story  consists  mainly  of  devices  to 
emphasise  certain  portions,  to  create  an  atmosphere,  and 
to  catch  and  hold  the  interest  in  the  characters.  Contrast 
now  with  this  The  White  Old  Maid.  Very  briefly,  the 
plot  is  as  follows :  Two  young  women  sit  in  a  mysterious 
room  beside  the  dead  body  of  a  youth  they  have  both 
loved.  There  has  been  mysterious  wrong  done  to  him 
now  dead,  and  the  guilty  one — the  dark  girl  by  his  bed- 
side— is  to  do  penance  through  suffering  in  the  world 


INTRODUCTION  9 

before  she  may  come  back  to  that  room  to  be  forgiven. 
Years  pass,  the  ancient  house  without  inhabitant  falls 
into  gloomy  disrepair;  in  the  town  a  mysterious  woman, 
robed  in  white,  follows  for  a  generation  each  funeral. 
One  day  she  appears  without  her  accustomed  cause, 
knocks  on  the  ancient  doorway  of  the  deserted  house, 
and,  to  the  confounding  of  the  townsfolk,  is  admitted. 
A  coach  rolls  up  the  street,  upon  its  panels  emblazoned 
the  arms  of  a  family  whose  last  representative  has  just 
died  abroad.  An  old  woman  descends,  and  also  enters 
the  mysterious  house.  After  a  while  there  is  a  shriek 
heard  from  within,  and  when  the  aged  minister,  with 
one  of  the  townspeople  bolder  than  the  rest,  has  made 
his  way  in,  and  up  to  the  strange  chamber,  there  is  the 
White  Old  Maid  just  at  the  point  of  death,  and  they  are 
too  late  to  learn  her  secret. 

This,  too,  is  a  story,  in  the  sense  that  something  hap- 
pens ;  and  yet  the  real  story,  by  which  I  mean  the  nar- 
rative which  would  logically  connect  and  develop  these 
events,  is  just  hinted  at,  and  is  not  very  important.  It  is 
subordinated,  indeed,  to  a  new  aim.  The  White  Old 
Maid  is  narrative  for  a  purpose,  and  this  purpose  is  to 
suggest  an  impression,  and  to  leave  us  with  a  vivid  sen- 
sation rather  than  a  number  of  remembered  facts.  In 
short,  it  is  contrived,  not  to  leave  a  record  of  such  and 
such  an  old  woman  who  did  this  or  that,  but  rather  to 
stamp  upon  our  minds  the  impression  of  a  mystery- 
haunted  house,  mysterious  figures  entering,  strange 
words,  and  a  terrible  sorrow  behind  all.  Towards  such  a 
result  the  structure  of  the  plot,  every  bit  of  description, 
every  carefully  chosen  word,  directly  tends.  There  is  no 
rambling,  leisurely  narrative  like  that  of  The  Legend  of 
Sleepy  Hollow,  nor  digressions,  nor  a  natural  sequence 
of  events  such  as  might  be  expected  in  real  life.  The 
spell  of  the  end  is  over  every  word  and  every  choice  of 
incident.  It  is  this  which,  for  want  of  a  less-abused 
word,  may  be  called  impressionism,  that  is  characteristic 
2 


10       THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

to  some  extent  of  all  typical  Short  Stories,  and  serves  as 
the  most  fundamental  distinction  between  them  and  the 
earher  tales. 

Before  going  further,  it  is  well  to  try  to  answer  the 
question  of  source  which  naturally  arises  here ;  and, 
without  dipping  far  into  a  historical  inquiry,  it  is  pos- 
sible to  hazard  a  hypothesis.  It  is  evident  that  following 
the  Hne  of  influence  of  The  Spectator  papers  through 
Irving  we  discover  and  can  account  for  a  well-modelled, 
carefully  written,  thoroughly  artistic  tale,  best  exempli- 
fied, perhaps,  by  Rip  Van  Winkle.  This  would  and  does 
account  for  much  in  the  form  of  Hawthorne's  stories.  It 
is  as  easy  to  turn  to  the  romantic  school  of  Germany  for 
the  new  elements  which  are  to  be  discerned  in  this  story 
of  The  White  Old  Maid,  and  in  much  more  of  his  work. 
In  the  mystical,  rhapsodical  writings  of  that  school  we 
cannot  fail  to  be  impressed  by  much  that  is  characteristic 
of  Hawthorne,  and  of  Poe  as  well.  Tieck  is  more  hke 
Hawthorne  than  is  any  American  writer;  Hoffmann's 
characters,  particularly  Master  Martin,  powerfully  sug- 
gest the  half-real,  symboHstic  figures  of  Hawthorne's 
creation.  In  the  introduction  to  The  Serapion  Brethren, 
Hoffmann  formulates  a  method  which  was  often  Haw- 
thorne's, and  is  certainly  that  of  many  impressionistic, 
modern  Short  Stories.  "  At  least,"  he  says,  "  let  each 
one  of  us  [the  Brethren  who  are  to  tell  the  tales]  strive 
earnestly  and  truly  to  grasp  the  image  that  has  arisen  in 
his  mind  in  all  its  features,  its  colours,  its  lights  and  its 
shades ;  and  then,  when  he  feels  himself  really  enkindled 
by  them,  let  him  proceed  to  embody  them  in  an  external 
description." 

Then  the  resemblance  of  Feathertop  to  The  Scare- 
crow of  Tieck  has  often  been  pointed  out,  and  many 
another  similarity.  But  none  of  this  proves  the  direct 
debt  of  the  Short  Story  to  the  Germans.  Hawthorne 
learned  to  read  German,  with  difficulty,  in  1843 — ^^at  is, 
after  much  of  his  best  work  had  been  published.    There 


INTRODUCTION  !1 

were  translations  of  a  few  of  Tieck's  tales,  to  be  sure,  by 
1825 ;  but  the  best  were  not  chosen,  and  it  is  not  to  be 
assumed  that  Hawthorne  ever  saw  them.  As  for  The 
Scarecrow,  it  was  published  in  1835,  but  in  the  Berlin 
Novellenkranz,  an  "  annual,"  and  Hawthorne  could  not 
possibly  have  read  it  until  after  its  inclusion  in  a  story 
collection  in  1842.  But  the  suggestion  for  the  story 
is  included  among  the  many  in  the  American  Note- 
Books,  -and  dated  1840.  Schonbach,  whose  critical 
knowledge  of  the  two  Germans  and  of  the  American 
gives  him  an  authoritative  word,  sums  the  matter  up 
very  definitely.  "  However,"  he  says,  **  that  Tieck  was 
Hawthorne's  master  and  was  imitated  by  him,  as  Poe 
believed,  and  as  has  since  been  persistently  reiterated, 
seems  to  me,  merely  for  these  internal  reasons,  to  be 
highly  improbable."  That  is  from  his  Contribution  to 
the  Characterisation  of  Nathaniel  Hawthorne,  in  Eng- 
lische  Studien,  in  which  he  reasons  the  matter  from 
internal  as  well  as  from  external  evidence. 

To  trace  an  influence  is  always  difficult,  and  here  the 
result  seems  particularly  doubtful.  The  Germans  of  the' 
romantic  school  felt  much  as  Hawthorne,  and  wrote 
somewhat  like  him,  or  he  like  them;  that  is  about  as  far 
as  it  is  safe  to  go.  The  truth  of  the  matter  appears  to  be 
that  this  indefinable  and  indefinite  element  of  romanti- 
cism seems  to  have  been  in  the  air  of  this  period,  in  Ger- 
many, in  England,  and  in  America,  and  Hawthorne  per- 
haps derived  his  mysticism,  his  fondness  for  the  unreal, 
his  susceptibility  to  impressions,  much  as  Wordsworth 
did  his.  In  fact,  in  many  of  Wordsworth's  poems  impres- 
sionistic motives  analogous  to  those  which  can  be  traced 
in  most  Short  Stories  are  at  the  root  of  the  writing.  The 
Yew-Trees,  I  Wandered  Lonely  as  a  Cloud,  perhaps  To 
a  Highland  Girl,  and  many  another,  show  such  an 
origin ;  and  Keats  and  other  poets  of  the  period  will  im- 
mediately suggest  themselves  as  companions,  and  to  be 
classed  with  Wordsworth  in  this  respect.    Think  for  an 


12       THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

instant  of  the  cause  and  effect  of  the  Ode  on  a  Grecian 
Urn.     This  phase  of  romanticism  was  in  the  air,  then, 
and  Hawthorne  may  have  absorbed  some  of  it  with  the 
Spenser,  common  food  of  all  romanticists,  which  he  read 
in  his  youth.    No  doubt,  too,  there  was  some  leaking  of 
German  influence ;  nor  should  Mrs.  Radcliffe  be  forgotten. 
But  the  attempt  to  create  an  impression  through  nar- 
rative was  not  thoroughly  successful  in  Germany.    The 
tales  of  Tieck,  and  particularly  of  Hoffmann,  are  too 
often  formless,   rambling,  without   unity.     They  arise 
often  enough  from  impressions,  and  are  intended  to  con- 
vey them.     Indeed,  in  the  case  of  Hoffmann,  we  have 
sometimes  the  history  of  the  actual  impression  to  com- 
pare with  the  story  which  resulted.     But  these  stories 
are  not  good  Short  Stories,  because  they  do  not  confine 
themselves  to  one  unified  purpose ;  many  of  them  have 
motifs  akin  to  that  of  The  White  Old  Maid,  but  they 
lack  the  architectonics  necessary  to  convey  them.    The 
best  stories  of  these  authors  will  be  found  thus  deficient 
— such  tales  as  those  in  The  Serapion  Brethren ;  Tieck's 
^    ^JTThe  Goblet,  or  The   Fair-Haired  Eckbert.     Fouque's 
\\^   Undine  is  structurally  better  designed  to  gain  the  end 
r      of  an  impression ;  but  that  is  a  comparatively  long  story, 
(^        and  the  impression  the  very  broad  one  of  the  mystery  of 
\     nature. 

^ —     But  Hawthorne,  saturated  with  the  same  spirit,  sus- 
ceptible as  they  to  the  impressions  which  nature,  char- 
,  'acter,  strange  incongruities,  horrible  fancies,  made  upon 

/'  his  imagination,  had  at  his  command  the  well-ordered 
instrument  which  Irving  and  his  literary  forefathers  had 
e)       been  polishing  for  their  needs ;  and  the  use  he  made  of 
>^        it  is  largely  responsible  for  the  Short  Story. 

This  does  not  assert  that  Hawthorne  was  among  the 
first  of  the  impressionists ;  nor,  indeed,  that  a  Short 
Story  writer  is  a  so-called  impressionist  at  all,  since  that 
word  seems  to  possess  a  dangerous  variety  of  meanings. 
Hawthorne's  story,  it  seems,  is  intended  to  suggest  a 


INTRODUCTION  1 3 

picture  to  the  mind  of  the  reader,  or  to  produce  an  im- 
pression upon  it,  which  will  resemble  that  vivid  one 
which  either  actually  or  in  imagination  the  writer  re- 
ceived  when  the  combination  of  the  mysterious  figure 
and  the  strange  old  house,  full  of  gloomy  suggestions, 
left  its  record  upon  his  mind.  Indeed,  to  convey  this 
seems  to  be  the  main  purpose  of  his  writing;  and, 
throughout,  the  story  is  constructed  to  produce  such  an 
effect.  Poe  had  such  an  attempt  in  mind  in  his  work ; 
he  expresses  it  in  his  criticism  of  Hawthorne's  stories, 
published  in  Graham's  Magazine  for  May  of  1842.  *'  If 
wise,"  he  says  of  the  writer  o^  tales,  **  he  has  not  fash- 
ioned his  thoughts  to  accommodate  his  incidents;  but 
having  conceived,  with  deliberate  care,  a  certain  unique 
or  single  effect  to  be  wrought  out,  he  then  invents  such 
incidents — he  then  combines  such  events  as  may  best  aid 
him  in  establishing  the  preconceived  effect.  If  his  very 
initial  sentence  tend  not  to  the  outbringing  of  this  effect, 
then  he  has  failed  in  his  first  step.  In  the  whole  compo- 
sition there  should  be  no  word  written,  of  which  the 
tendency,  direct  or  indirect,  is  not  to  the  one  preestab- 
lished  design."  This  "  preconceived  effect "  may  be 
regarded  as  the  impression  which  the  author  wishes  to 
convey. 

So  the  nucleus  of  Bret  Harte's  story.  The  Luck  of 
Roaring  Camp,  may  have  been  the  glimpse  of  a  lank, 
rough  figure,  with  a  tiny  baby  in  its  arms ;  and,  in  spite 
of  the  excellent  plot,  a  feeling  akin  to  the  pleasurable 
emotion  which  would  follow  upon  such  a  scene  in  real 
life  remains  longest  with  the  reader.  According  to  this 
theory  the  process,  if  one  should  attempt  to  write  a 
Short  Story,  might  be  something  like  this :  I  leave  my 
room  and  meet  a  drunken  beggar  reeling  from  the  gut- 
ter. As  I  turn  to  avoid  him,  he  pulls  himself  together 
and  quotes  huskily  a  dozen  lines  of  Virgil  with  a  bow  and 
a  flourish,  and  stumbles  off  into  the  darkness.  I  make 
him  into  a  story,  and,  be  the  plot  what  it  may,  the  effect 


t4      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

upon  the  reader  that  I  shall  strive  for  will  be  a  vivid  im- 
pression of  incongruity,  not  far  different  from  that 
which  I  felt  when  the  drunkard  turned  scholar  and  re- 
lapsed. Not  all  Short  Stories  can  be  analysed  back  to 
their  basic  element  as  easily  as  this  one  may  be  built 
up,  but  with  many  the  process  is  easy  and  obvious. 
Nearly  every  conte  of  Maupassant  is  a  perfect  example ; 
his  titles.  Fear,  Happiness,  A  Coward,  would  lead  one 
to  suspect  as  much.  In  the  motifs  and  suggestions  for 
stories,  some  utilised  later,  some  not,  which  may  be 
found  in  quantity  scattered  through  Hawthorne's  Amer- 
ican Note-Books,  such  an  impression  is  often  noted  at 
the  moment  of  its  inception.  Here,  in  the  American 
Note-Books,  ii,  176,  is:  "  The  print  in  blood  of  a  naked 
foot  to  be  traced  through  the  streets  of  a  town,"  which 
seems  to  inspire  Dr.  Grimshawe's  Secret ;  and  again,  N. 
B-  i,  13 :  "  In  an  old  house  a  mysterious  knocking  might 
be  heard  on  the  wall,  where  had  formerly  been  a  door- 
way now  bricked  up,"  which  is  applied  in  Peter  Gold- 
thwaite's  Treasure ;  also :  "  A  stranger,  dying,  is  buried ; 
and  after  many  years  two  strangers  come  in  search  of 
his  grave  and  open  it."  But  Hawthorne  inclined  more 
often  to  moral,  philosophical  reflections  for  his  begin- 
nings, such  as :  "  To  make  one's  own  reflection  in  a  mir- 
ror the  subject  of  a  story,"  afterwards  used  in  Monsieur 
du  Miroir ;  and  then  his  stories  often  become  symbolistic 
tales,  or  didactic  narratives.  An  excellent  tale,  and  yet 
not  to  be  ranked  as  a  typical  Short  Story,  is  The  Great 
Stone  Face.  Another,  The  Birthmark,  is  not  so  ob- 
viously allegorical,  yet  certainly  springs  from  a  philo- 
sophical source. 

Kipling  has  written  many  stories  whose  motifs  are 
impressions,  such  as  The  Ship  that  Found  Herself,  and 
The  Mark  of  the  Beast,  to  take  two  very  different  ones. 
Stories  of  horror,  such  as  the  narrative  last  mentioned 
and  Poe's  The  Pit  and  the  Pendulum,  are  usually  of  this 
nature.    Indeed,  nearly  every  collection  of  Short  Stories 


INTRODUCTION  IS 

may  be  drawn  upon  for  examples.  In  Henry  James's 
story,  Flickerbridge,  included  in  his  volume,  The  Better 
Sort,  the  action  of  the  story  can  be  explained  only  by 
the  deep  impression  which  the  quaint,  delightful  lady  of 
Flickerbridge  makes  upon  the  hero,  an  impression  it  is 
the  intent  of  the  author  to  convey  to  the  reader ;  and  so 
with  many  another. 

But  the  commonest  variety  is  not  so  simple.  Ste- 
venson's A  Lodging  for  the  Night,  Kipling's  Without 
Benefit  of  Clergy,  Bret  Harte's  The  Outcasts  of  Poker 
Flat,  Maurice  Hewlett's  Madonna  of  the  Peach-Tree, 
and  perhaps  a  majority  of  the  magazine  stories  of  the 
day,  preserve  the  old  desire  to  tell  a  story  well  as  an 
equal  or  the  dominant  motive,  only  modified  by  the  at- 
tempt to  convey  that  impression  which  was  probably  at 
the  foundation  of  the  narrative.  I  venture  to  say  that  an 
imagined  contrast  between  the  proud,  God-honouring, 
simple-minded  seigneur,  and  the  poor  devil  of  a  Villon, 
clever  and  rascally,  was  the  starting-point  of  A  Lodging 
for  the  Night ;  and  perhaps  a  sight  or  a  thought  of  such 
a  group  as  that  about  the  fire  in  The  Outcasts  of  Poker 
Flat,  the  pure  and  the  stained,  the  reprobate  and  the 
innocent,  all  under  the  spell  of  a  common  peril,  was  the 
germ  of  that  great  story.  But  in  both  instances  the  plot 
is  highly  developed,  and  by  no  means  entirely  aims  at 
these  single  effects,  although  in  each  case  they  are  prob- 
ably sought  for  as  the  sum  of  the  story. 

This  subdivision  will  naturally  suggest  what  is  known 
as  the  ''  character-sketch,"  a  form  of  the  Short  Story  in 
which  again  there  is  another  element  besides  that  of 
pure  impressionism.  Take,  for  instance,  Verga's  Jeli 
the  Shepherd,  a  story  of  a  simple  herdboy  of  good  in- 
stincts fostered  by  close  association  with  nature,  a  love 
Hke  hero-worship,  and  a  mind  slow  to  admit  new  ideas. 
The  story  tells  how  he  loves  and  marries  Mara;  and 
when  the  knowledge  comes  to  him  that  she  is  false,  he 
merely  works  on  stupidly  until  one  day  the  realisation 


l6       THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

comes,  he  sees  her  with  her  lover,  and  a  man's  throat  is 
cut.  This  story  is  psychological,  it  deals  with  charac- 
ter-exposition, but  it  approaches  it  through  an  impres- 
sion; the  attempt  is  first  of  all  to  make  the  reader  feel 
this  simple  herdboy's  mental  make-up  and  personality; 
and  then,  by  added  incident,  fact,  and  explanation,  appeal 
to  the  reason,  that  the  impression  may  be  explained  and 
made  convincing.  Many  of  Miss  Mary  E.  Wilkins's 
New  England  stories  are  similarly  constructed.  Worn 
old  women,  pale  girls  with  colourless  ideals — Maupas- 
sant would  be  content  with  making  us  feel  such  types 
— and  often,  as  in  Arethusa  and  most  of  her  Under- 
studies, Miss  Wilkins  goes  no  further,  for  Arethusa 
seems  to  be  the  working  out  of  that  feeling  which  one 
gets  from  a  chance  sight  of  a  shy  girl  with  the  wild  in- 
stincts of  maidenhood  in  her  eyes;  and  another.  The 
Monkey,  the  memory  of  a  homesick  monkey  reaching 
his  little  arms  restlessly  through  the  bars  of  his.  cage. 
But  the  commoner  type  of  the  Short  Story  of  character 
deals  with  an  impression  reenforced  by  psychological 
work,  or  motive-seeking,  or  thought-exposition,  de- 
signed to  appeal  to  the  reason  of  the  reader,  to  confirm 
and  make  more  complete,  more  reasonable,  the  impres- 
sions he  has  received  from  the  story.    Bjornson,  Henry 

_      Tames,  Turgeneff — there  are  dozens  who  have  written 

— .^   such  stories. 

Mr.  W.  M.  Hart,  in  the  essay  which  I  have  already 
mentioned,  feels,  evidently,  that  a  purpose  ulterior  to 
that  of  mere  narrative  is  the  characteristic  quality  of  a 
Short  Story,  but  he  takes  this  purpose  to  be  explanatory, 
and  a  proof  that  an  essay  is  in  the  family  tree,  say  of  the 
Plain  Tales  from  the  Hills.  The  transition  from  the  tales 
with  a  purpose  of  The  Spectator,  which  Irving  imitated 
and  Hawthorne  studied,  to  the  "  impression  "  story  of 
the  latter  author,  is  not  difficult;  but  the  step  is  a  long 
one,  and  originality  can  scarcely  be  denied  to  the  latter 
form.    What  appeal  The  Spectator  tale  makes,  beyond 


INTRODUCTION  I? 

that  of  its  narrative,  is  to  the  intellect  solely,  while  the 
first  aim  of  the  later  stories  of  which  I  have  been  speak- 
ing is  to  make  the  reader  feel  that  with  which  the  writer 
was  impressed.  This  point  may  be  illustrated  by  a  com- 
parison of  Spectator  paper  No.  299,  Letter  from  Sir 
John  Envil,  Married  to  a  Woman  of  Quality,  with  Miss 
Sarah  Orne  Jewett's  story,  David  Berry.  The  first  deals 
with  "  those  calamities  and  misfortunes  which  a  weak 
man  suffers  from  wrong  measures  and  ill-concerted 
schemes-'of  life ;  "  that  is,  the  danger  arising  from  marry- 
ing a  wife  above  his  rank ;  the  second  with  the  downfall 
of  a  virtuous  old  shoemaker,  brought  about  indirectly 
by  his  ambitious  dame.  I  have  quoted  a  line  or  so  from 
the  introduction  to  The  Spectator  paper,  and  it  is  evi- 
dent that  this  story  begins  with  an  abstraction,  a  theory, 
which  is  dressed  in  narrative  to  enforce  the  point.  But 
it  is  just  as  clear  that  David  Berry  is  first  of  all  an  idea, 
a  memory,  or  an  impression  of  the  kindly  old  fellow, 
simple  and  honest  and  overgenerous,  and  that  the  moral 
side,  the  lesson  that  one  may  learn,  is  merely  the  almost 
inevitable  result  which  follows  the  working  out  of  a 
character  which  woulc  make  such  an  impression  upon 
us.  One  story  works  from  the  abstract  forward,  the 
other  from  the  concrete  backward.  And  thus  the  line  of 
development  of  the  Short  Story  from  the  essay  source, 
while  in  part  traceable,  is  sufficiently  tenuous. 

Although  this  impressionism,  used  strictly  as  defined, 
when  combined  with  the  other  elements  of  a  Short 
Story,  seems  to  make  for  a  new  literary  form,  there  is 
nevertheless  much  earlier  writing  with  impressionistic 
tendencies.  Sterne  is  full  of  it,  and  A  Sentimental  Jour- 
ney has  a  kind  of  impressionism  as  its  most  serious  pur- 
pose. But  A  Sentimental  Journey  lacks  all  the  other 
qualifications  of  a  Short  Story.  It  rambles ;  it  has  no 
particular  unity ;  it  observes  none  of  the  rigid  require- 
ments which  confine  a  Short  Story  to  one  incident,  one 
main  impression,  and  a  unified,  climactic  development. 


I8       THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

It  would  be  possible  to  select  an  episode  such  as  that  of 
the  glove-merchant's  wife,  or  that  of  the  fille  de  chambre, 
which  would  have  a  considerable  unity,  but  the  impres- 
sions he  there  chronicles  are  slight  ones,  so  slight  that  a 
graceful  style,  wit,  and  chance  hits  can  convey  them,  and 
the  narrative  amounts  to  nothing,  or  is  there  for  its  own 
sake.  Many  poets,  too,  have  been  praised  for,  or  accused 
of,  impressionism ;  but,  except  in  regard  to  sources,  that 
is  outside  the  inquiry,  since  it  is  with  the  Short  Story  as 
with  the  novel,  its  elements  are  to  be  found  elsewhere; 
but  it  is  their  combination,  and  their  development  when 
so  combined,  which  results  in  a  form  distinct  from  its 
antecedents. 

The  particular  terseness,  vividness  attained  by  choice 
of  words,  rapid  description,  and  swift  action  character- 
istic of  this  modern  story,  are  all  naturally  employed  in 
the  attempt  to  convey  with  sufficient  force  the  impres- 
sion which  the  author  has  received.  In  the  simple  narra- 
tive of  the  early  tales  these  devices  are  utilised  to  some 
extent.  But  it  is  this  new,  or  newly-matured  purpose, 
which  has  brought  to  a  nicety  that  which  may  be  called 
the  machinery  of  the  Short  Story.  To  tell  a  tale  well 
requires  careful  arrangement  of  events,  a  careful  propor- 
tioning, careful  adjustment  of  description  and  of  narra- 
tion, of  character  and  of  action,  and  this  may  result  in 
such  an  excellent  story  as  Wandering  Willie's  Tale. 
But,  by  means  of  this  well-told  tale,  to  make  a  vivid  im- 
pression of  a  mood,  an  incongruity,  a  pathetic  situation, 
or  a  strange  companionship,  as  in  Kipling's  The  Brush- 
wood Boy,  a  still  more  careful  art  is  necessary.  Every 
word  must  count;  and,  for  the  sake  of  definite  outline, 
everything  not  essential  must  be  rigorously  excluded. 
The  result  is  a  concise,  narrative  picture  of  something 
striking  in  events  or  in  character,  or  in  the  union  of  the 
two. 

Suppose  this  process  be  applied  to  a  tale  which  is  to 
be  told  for  the   story    simply,  notably  a  tale  with  a  re- 


INTRODUCTION  t9 

versal.  Should  this  story  be  written  with  the  terseness, 
the  vivid  action,  the  condensed  description,  the  absohite 
unity  and  tot^ity  of  the  Short  Story  form,  the  result  will 
be  a  vivid  impression  of  the  plot,  and  particularly  of  the 
reversal,  but  not  an  impression  in  precisely  the  sense 
which  I  have  used  before.  Many  modern  stories  may  be 
included  here,  of  which  the  ubiquitous  detective  story, 
best  exemplified  perhaps  in  Poe's  The  Purloined  Letter, 
is  the  most  familiar.  For  the  tales  with  a  reversal,  a  sur- 
prise at  the  end,  we  must  look  to  work  of  a  lighter  mood. 
Some  of  H.  C.  Bunner's  Short  Sixes,  such  a  tale  as  T.  B. 
Aldrich's  Marjorie  Daw,  and  many  familiar  narratives, 
will  be  remembered  and  so  classified.  It  is  very  difficult 
now  to  find  good  Short  Stories  in  which  some  trace  of 
the  impressionistic  element  cannot  be  discovered,  but 
those  belonging  to  the  class  of  The  Purloined  Letter  or 
Marjorie  Daw  may  be  said  to  be  tales,  in  the  sense  de- 
fined, built  along  the  lines  developed  for  the  Short 
Story ;  and  this  highly-perfected,  very  dramatic  structure 
is  largely  a  result  of  the  attempt  to  convey  an  impression 
by  narrative. 

And,  finally,  it  must  be  remembered  that  it  is  never 
advisable  to  plot  too  mathematically  the  boundaries  of 
literary  forms.  Tlie  artist  works  with  only  his  own  pur- 
pose in  view,  and  the  most  we  can  hope  to  accomplish 
is  to  ascertain  what  he  has  done  and  how.  He  certainly 
does  not  sit  down  to  write  a  tale  or  a  Short  Story  accord- 
ing to  the  choice  of  the  moment.  But  the  story-writer  of 
to-day  does  seem  to  have  accomplished  something  which 
differs  from  that  which  the  old  tale-teller  attempted  to 
achieve.  There  are  probably  several  ways  of  getting  at 
this  difference.  Professor  Edward  Everett  Hale,  Jr., 
suggests  that  the  handling  of  the  tale  is  simple  and  the 
^interest  centred  upon  incident,  while  the  handling  of  the 
Short  Story  is  complex  and  the  interest  there  fixed  upon 
situation.  This  seems  to  be  a  very  useful  distinction,  for 
nothing  is  more  characteristic  of  the  more  original  of 


I8       THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

It  would  be  possible  to  select  an  episode  such  as  that  of 
the  glove-merchant's  wife,  or  that  of  the  fille  de  chambre, 
which  would  have  a  considerable  unity,  but  the  impres- 
sions he  there  chronicles  are  slight  ones,  so  slight  that  a 
graceful  style,  wit,  and  chance  hits  can  convey  them,  and 
the  narrative  amounts  to  nothing,  or  is  there  for  its  own 
sake.  Many  poets,  too,  have  been  praised  for,  or  accused 
of,  impressionism ;  but,  except  in  regard  to  sources,  that 
is  outside  the  inquiry,  since  it  is  with  the  Short  Story  as 
with  the  novel,  its  elements  are  to  be  found  elsewhere; 
but  it  is  their  combination,  and  their  development  wtien 
so  combined,  which  results  in  a  form  distinct  from  its 
antecedents. 

The  particular  terseness,  vividness  attained  by  choice 
of  words,  rapid  description,  and  swift  action  character- 
istic of  this  modern  story,  are  all  naturally  employed  in 
the  attempt  to  convey  with  sufficient  force  the  impres- 
sion which  the  author  has  received.  In  the  simple  narra- 
tive of  the  early  tales  these  devices  are  utilised  to  some 
extent.  But  it  is  this  new,  or  newly-matured  purpose, 
which  has  brought  to  a  nicety  that  which  may  be  called 
the  machinery  of  the  Short  Story.  To  tell  a  tale  well 
requires  careful  arrangement  of  events,  a  careful  propor- 
tioning, careful  adjustment  of  description  and  of  narra- 
tion, of  character  and  of  action,  and  this  may  result  in 
such  an  excellent  story  as  Wandering  Willie's  Tale. 
But,  by  means  of  this  well-told  tale,  to  make  a  vivid  im- 
pression of  a  mood,  an  incongruity,  a  pathetic  situation, 
or  a  strange  companionship,  as  in  Kipling's  The  Brush- 
wood Boy,  a  still  more  careful  art  is  necessary.  Every 
word  must  count ;  and,  for  the  sake  of  definite  outHne, 
everything  not  essential  must  be  rigorously  excluded. 
The  result  is  a  concise,  narrative  picture  of  something 
striking  in  events  or  in  character,  or  in  the  union  of  the 
two. 

Suppose  this  process  be  applied  to  a  tale  which  is  to 
be  told  for  the  story    simply,  notably  a  tale  with  a  re- 


INTRODUCTION  19 

versal.  Should  this  story  be  written  with  the  tefseness, 
the  vivid  action,  the  condensed  description,  the  absohite 
unity  and  tot^ity  of  the  Short  Story  form,  the  result  will 
be  a  vivid  impression  of  the  plot,  and  particularly  of  the 
reversal,  but  not  an  impression  in  precisely  the  sense 
which  I  have  used  before.  Many  modern  stories  may  be 
included  here,  of  which  the  ubiquitous  detective  story, 
best  exemplified  perhaps  in  Poe's  The  Purloined  Letter, 
is  the  most  familiar.  For  the  tales  with  a  reversal,  a  sur- 
prise  at  the  end,  we  must  look  to  work  of  a  lighter  mood. 
Some  of  H.  C.  Bunner's  Short  Sixes,  such  a  tale  as  T.  B. 
Aldrich's  Marjorie  Daw,  and  many  familiar  narratives, 
will  be  remembered  and  so  classified.  It  is  very  difficult 
now  to  find  good  Short  Stories  in  which  some  trace  of 
the  impressionistic  element  cannot  be  discovered,  but 
those  belonging  to  the  class  of  The  Purloined  Letter  or 
Marjorie  Daw  may  be  said  to  be  tales,  in  the  sense  de- 
fined, built  along  the  lines  developed  for  the  Short 
Story ;  and  this  highly-perfected,  very  dramatic  structure 
is  largely  a  result  of  the  attempt  to  convey  an  impression 
by  narrative. 

And,  finally,  it  must  be  remembered  that  it  is  never 
advisable  to  plot  too  mathematically  the  boundaries  of 
literary  forms.  The  artist  works  with  only  his  own  pur- 
pose in  view,  and  the  most  we  can  hope  to  accomplish 
is  to  ascertain  what  he  has  done  and  how.  He  certainly 
does  not  sit  down  to  write  a  tale  or  a  Short  Story  accord- 
ing to  the  choice  of  the  moment.  But  the  story-writer  of 
to-day  does  seem  to  have  accomplished  something  which 
differs  from  that  which  the  old  tale-teller  attempted  to 
achieve.  There  are  probably  several  ways  of  getting  at 
this  difference.  Professor  Edward  Everett  Hale,  Jr., 
suggests  that  the  handling  of  the  tale  is  simple  and  the 
^interest  centred  upon  incident,  while  the  handling  of  the 
Short  Story  is  complex  and  the  interest  there  fixed  upon 
situation.  This  seems  to  be  a  very  useful  distinction,  for 
nothing  is  more  characteristic  of  the  more  original  of 


4 
22  THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

youthful  deed  and  the  aged  penalty.  Either  by  details, 
or,  when  that  was  not  practicable,  by  suggestion,  their 
transcription  of  life  has  been  as  full  as  they  could 
make  it.  Their  art  is  always  to  imitate  the  breadth  and 
the  fulness  of  living.  At  one  extreme  of  this  imitation 
is  realism,  and  there  the  picture  is  somewhat  photo- 
graphic ;  at  the  other  extreme  is  romance,  where  the 
reader's  imagination  is  tickled  into  supplying  much  not 
plainly  told  by  the  author.  In  either  case,  the  life  de- 
picted in  the  books,  Hke  the  life  in  the  world,  has  many 
facets ;  and,  even  though  the  multiplicity  of  actual 
experience  may  not  be  present,  the  suggestion  of  it, 
if  the  book  is  good,  will  not  be  lacking.  Thus  this 
novel  is  natural,  in  so  far  as  any  artistic  transfer  of 
the  real  world  into  the  world  of  imagination  can  be 
natural. 

But  here  we  must  make  a  further  qualification  and 
feeparation.  All  modern  novels  do  not  attempt  to  convey 
the  suggestion  of  the  whole  of  life,  facet  by  facet,  even 
though,  to  a  greater  extent  than  the  Short  Story,  they 
ape  the  multiplicity  of  actual  experience.  What  of  the 
so-called  impressionistic  school  of  which,  in  English  at 
least,  Henry  James  is  the  head?  If  you  examine  his 
Washington  Square,  you  will  find  it  to  be  a  love-story  of 
some  length  and  of  actual  manners ;  a  novel,  indeed,  ac- 
cording to  definition ;  and  yet  every  incident,  every 
detail,  every  bit  of  description  is  focused  upon  the  rela- 
tion between  the  dull  and  faithful  Catherine  and  her 
lover,  the  brilliant  but  unsteady  Maurice  Townsend. 
The  story  covers  the  life  of  the  girl  to  middle  age,  yet 
there  is  only  one  point  of  view,  and,  at  the  end,  one  im- 
pression. But  this  impression  is  not  the  result  of  the 
fusion  of  numerous  observations,  each  drawn,  as  in  real 
life,  from  some  attitude,  action,  or  remark  upon  charac- 
ter. This  is  the  method  of  Romola  and  of  The  Egoist, 
but  in  Washington  Square  it  is  attained  by  the  presenta- 
tion of  certain  incidents  selected  from  the  girl's  life- 


INTRODUCTION  ^3 

story.  To  use  a  geological  figure,  Henry  James  follows 
a  single  vein  throughout  its  course  by  means  of  an  occa- 
sional outcrop.  Among  foreigners,  Turgeneff  has  done 
notable  work  which  must  be  regarded  from  this  point 
of  view.  His  Mumu  is  the  story  of  the  brute  love  of  a 
gigantic  serf,  Gerasim,  for  first  a  woman  and  then  a  dog. 
The  interest  of  the  story  centres  entirely  in  this  love,  and 
in  the  character  of  which  it  is  a  result.  His  A  Lear  of 
the  Steppes  is  focused  even  more  narrowly  upon  the 
steps  to'' a  tragedy.  The  Diary  of  a  Superfluous  Man 
wonderfully  presents  a  weak-willed,  conceited  lover, 
doing  no  work  in  the  world  and  aware  of  it,  but  hunger- 
ing for  the  tribute  of  praise  and  affection  which  only  one 
worthy  of  it  can  gain.  This  is  a  life-story  from  birth  to 
death,  but  this  unfortunate's  character,  or  lack  of  it,  can 
be  thoroughly  illustrated  in  the  course  of  his  short  love- 
aflfair;  and,  consequently,  the  incidents  selected  are 
nearly  all  from  that  event  itself,  or  preparatory  to  it,  or 
in  summary  of  what  it  has  shown.  Select  certain  pas- 
sages regarding  Levin  from  Tolstoy's  Anna  Karenina, 
and  you  could  construct  a  companion  piece.  These 
"  impressionistic  novels  "  and  their  class,  to  some  extent 
an  intermediate  form  between  the  novel  of  the  Vanity 
Fair  type  and  the  Short  Story,  may  perhaps  be  looked 
upon  as  expanded  Short  Stories,  and  belonging  to  their 
genre.  Indeed,  some  of  the  stories  of  Turgeneff  may  be 
called  by  either  name.  Without  the  concentration  of  the 
Short  Story  and  the  resulting  vividness,  they  are  told 
with  a  like  view,  and  a  like  selection  of  those  facts  which 
are  at  the  base  of  all  narration. 

But  in  the  novel  which  attempts  to  give  a  natural 
picture  of  the  various  sides  of  life  there  is  a  point  of 
view  which  differs  from  that  of  the  Short  Story.  If  the 
name  had  not  already  been  appropriated,  I  should  like 
to  say  the  historical  novel,  because  in  this  respect  it  fol- 
lows the  methods  of  history.  The  "  ubiquitous  novel  " 
it  has  been  called,  I  believe,  and  this  expresses  the  dis- 


24       THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

linction  which  resuhs  in  another  structure  and  another 
treatment  from  that  of  the  Short  Story. 

The  primal  difference  lies  in  the  way  the  authors 
view  their  crude  materials,  the  life  about  them.  While 
the  novel-writer,  even  one  of  the  impressionistic  type, 
aims  at  an  eminently  natural  method  of  transcription, 
the  author  of  the  Short  Story  adopts  a  very  artificial  one. 
His  endeavour  is  to  give  a  striking  narrative  picture  of 
one  phase  of  the  situation  or  the  character,  as  the  case 
may  be.  His  aim  is  towards  a  strip  lengthwise,  disre- 
garding much  that  a  cross-section  might  show.  He 
deals  with  a  series  of  incidents,  closely  related  to  one 
another  but  not  at  all  to  the  by-play  of  life  which,  in 
reality,  must  accompany  them.  He  treats  of  a  mood 
always  existing,  but  in  the  story  supremely  indicated; 
perhaps  of  an  adventure  or  a  catastrophe,  which  differs 
from  the  denouement  of  a  novel  in  that  the  interest  is 
concentrated :  the  cause  is  in  the  hero's  character,  ready- 
made  for  the  occasion ;  the  results  are  in  the  circum- 
stances of  the  story.  If  all  narration  amounts,  as  critics 
say,  merely  to  a  simplification  of  experience,  imagina- 
tive or  real,  then  a  Short  Story  is  simplification  to  the 
highest  degree.  We  are  selecting  far  more  than  in  a 
novel,  and  this  because  we  are  looking  only  for  the  chain 
of  related  incidents  that  go  to  make  up  one  event.  We 
are  picking  out  the  steps  that  make  the  tragedy,  as  in 
Maupassant's  famous  story.  The  Necklace,  or  in  Kip- 
ling's Without  Benefit  of  Clergy;  we  are  looking  only 
for  what  bears  upon  our  narrow  purpose,  that  the  inter- 
est may  be  concentrated,  and  the  conception  vivified, 
beyond  the  power  of  a  novel.  The  process  is  very 
artificial,  but  very  powerful ;  it  is  like  turning  a  telescope 
upon  one  nebula  in  the  heavens.  Thus  it  is  the  stand- 
point of  the  author  that  makes  the  distinction  between 
a  short  novel,  always  excepting  the  impressionistic  vari- 
ety, and  a  long  Short  Story.  In  the  one  the  writer  digests 
life-histories,  or  portions  of  them ;  in  the  other  he  looks 


INTRODUCTION  25 

only  for  the  episode,  which,  like  the  bubble  on  the 
stream,  is  part  of,  and  yet  distinguished  from,  the  main 
current.  Recognising  the  futility  in  certain  cases,  and  the 
needlessness  in  others,  of  expressing  the  whole  truth,  he 
succeeds  much  better  with  the  half.  He  foregoes  com- 
pleteness and  gains  in  force,  and  this  by  a  change  in 
the  standpoint  from  which  he  views  his  world  of  fact 
and  of  fancy. 

Evidence  that  the  Short  Story  and  the  novel  are  not 
products  of  the  same  artistic  process  has  been  sought  in 
the  frequent  inability  of  writers  of  good  Short  Stories  to 
construct  equally  good  novels,  and  if  this  argument  is 
not  pushed  too  far  it  is  a  good  one.  Hawthorne,  per- 
haps, certainly  Maupassant  and  KipHng,  men  who  made 
their  literary  reputations  by  their  Short  Stories,  found, 
and  in  the  case  of  Kipling  and  his  Kim,  still  find,  diffi- 
culty with  the  longer  form  of  fiction.  Bjornson  had 
trouble  in  handling  his  novels.  Flags  are  Flying  in 
Town  and  Harbour,  and  In  God's  Way ;  and  much  more 
testimony  of  the  same  character  may  be  gathered.  But 
there  is  much  to  be  said  against  an  absolute  statement, 
for  Tolstoy,  Dickens,  and  many  other  great  novelists 
have  succeeded  with  the  Short  Story ;  and  the  excellence 
of  Stevenson's  unfinished  Weir  of  Hermiston  is  evident 
enough  even  in  the  fragment  which  he  gave  us.  It  is 
safe  to  say  no  more  than  that  the  writer  of  Short  Stories 
finds  it  generally  difficult,  and  sometimes  impossible,  to 
enlarge  his  conceptions  and  broaden  and  lengthen  his 
action  to  the  scope  which  the  novel  demands,  with  this 
statement  in  reverse  equally  true  for  the  novelists.  But 
this  is  just  what  might  be  expected  if,  as  I  have  en- 
deavoured to  show,  it  is  true  that  the  difference  between 
the  modes  lies  in  the  point  of  view.  For  if  the  writer, 
who,  aside  from  his  artistic  faculty,  is  after  all  merely  a 
transcriber,  gifted  with  the  power  of  observation  and 
granted  the  right  of  selection  from  what  he  sees,  should 
look  always  for  the  essential  facts  that  make  up  his  sin- 
3 


36      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

gle  episode  and  produce  his  impression,  he  might  see 
only  Short  Stories  in  the  life  about  him,  and  find  it  as 
difficult  to  adjust  his  vision  to  a  different  perspective  as 
the  forester  who  looks  only  for  single  trees,  their  height 
and  kind,  and  now  would  wish,  with  artist's  eye,  to  com- 
prehend the  curves  and  colours  in  the  wide  sweep  of  the 
mountain  forest. 

To  sum  up  briefly  what  has  been  said  heretofore,  it 
might  be  asserted  that  what  is  loosely  called  the  modern 
Short  Story  seems  to  differ  from  the  old  tale  by  a  very 
scientific  adaptation  of  means  to  end,  which  end  may  be 
called  vividness ;  by  a  structure  which,  in  its  nice  propor- 
tions and  potentiality  for  adequate  expression,  is  a  more 
excellent  instrument  than  anything  the  old  tale  can 
show;  and  by  an  interest  in  situation,  as  a  rule,  rather 
than  in  simple  incident.  Also  through  the  source,  which 
is  an  impression  or  impressions,  usually  of  a  situation; 
and  the  purpose,  which  is  fitly  to  convey  these  impres- 
sions as  well  as  to  tell  a  story.  Ruth  will  do  very  well 
as  an  example  of  the  tale ;  The  Purloined  Letter,  as  a 
tale  done  into  Short  Story  form;  and  Markheim,  A 
Coward,  or  Without  Benefit  of  Clergy,  for  the  typical 
Short  Story.  If  it  is  necessary  to  say  what  characterises 
all  of  the  shorter  stories  now  being  written,  I  should 
suggest  that  it  is  an  attempt  at  greater  vividness,  and 
this  attempt  is  made  largely  through  those  practices  in 
composition  which  the  endeavour  to  convey  fitly  an  im- 
pression has  brought  into  common  use. 

In  a  comparison  with  the  novel,  we  may  take  all 
these  shorter  stories,  and  say  that  the  difference  lies  in 
the  point  of  view — provided  that  the  novel  be  of  that 
class  which  aims  at  a  natural  transcription  of  all  sides  of 
life,  as  does  Middlemarch  or  Vanity  Fair.  On  the  other 
hand,  it  may  be  said  that  the  Short  Story  differs  from  the 
"  impressionistic  "  novel  in  concentration  only.  That 
literary  variety  strikes  deeper,  goes  further;  but  the 
Short  Story  is  intended  for  surface-work ;  it  is  formed  to 


INTRODUCTION  27 

catch  and  record  the  striking  things,  and  to  make  them 
more  striking.  It  is  a  precipitate  of  the  important 
things  from  the  general  solution,  and  as  such  has  a  force 
distinctly  its  own  and  a  form  as  distinctive;  which, 
through  the  efforts  of  the  great  men  who  have  laboured 
with  it,  has  been  developed  to  gain  and  to  exercise  its 
power. 

THE   RISE  OF  THE   SHORT   STORY 

NeW  developments  in  literature  do  not  arise  nor  be- 
come popular  without  reason.  There  are  causes,  artistic 
and  otherwise,  for  the  present  blossoming  of  the  Short 
Story,  causes  which  in  themselves  differ  from  those 
which  have  made  the  novel  flourish.  In  a  time  of  much 
writing  tastes  are  quickly  jaded,  and  the  Short  Story, 
because  it  is  terse,  striking,  highly-coloured,  and  some- 
wdiat  new,  meets  with  quick  applause.  '  Its  brevity  is  of 
advantage,  for  many  people  can  be  made  to  swallow 
good  literature  in  a  pill  who  reject  it  in  larger  doses. 
But  the  class  of  readers  thus  gained  accounts  less  for 
the  Hterary  development  of  the  tale  than  for  the  vast 
number  of  poor  Short  Stories  now  breeding  manifold. 
Such  a  cHentele  can  increase  the  production,  and  will 
usually  debase  the  quality,  of  any  form  of  literary  en- 
deavour, as  the  attitude  of  the  prurient-minded  Lon- 
doners of  the  Restoration  increased  and  debased  the 
output  of  the  contemporary  dramatists.  Unintelligent 
appreciation  is  not  likely  to  be  responsible  for  a  high  de- 
velopment in  art.  That  there  has  been  an  artistic 
advance,  and  a  great  one,  in  story-telling,  needs  for  illus- 
tration only  a  comparison  of  a  Blackwood's  tale  of  the 
30's  and  a  Kipling  story  of  the  90's. 

The  old  desire  for  something  new  and  more  pungent 
would  account  for  the  encouragement  which  this  new 
development  has  received.  And  there  is  an  undoubted 
need,  in  a  generation  whose  Hfe  is  greatly  varied  by- 
widely  diffused  knowledge  and  extensive  intercommuni- 


( 


28       THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

cation,  for  the  vivid  expression  of  little  things.  This 
would  add  another  impulse.  But  a  literary  structure 
which  displays  the  greatest  nicety  of  form  to  be  found 
outside  the  domain  of  poetry  indicates  some  cause  more 
aesthetic  than  those  so  far  mentioned.  In  simple  truth, 
the  Short  Story  has  attained  a  wonderful  perfection  be- 
cause wonderful  men  have  worked  with  it  and  through 
it.  It  has  just  come  into  its  own.  In  the  England  of 
the  30's,  publishers  would  not  look  upon  anything  less 
than  a  volume  of  fiction  as  a  serious  literary  effort — and 
they  preferred  three  volumes.  It  was  only  in  the 
first  half  of  the  last  century  that  Irving,  Hawthorne,  and 
Poe  in  America  began  the  cult  of  the  short  narrative, 
and  Merimee  in  France  achieved  his  masterpieces  of 
simple  brevity.  Coppee's  search  for  the  inevitable 
word,  and  Maupassant's  refinement  of  the  conte,  came 
later  still.  The  Short  Story  was  adapted  to  the  needs  of 
the  time  and  to  the  tastes  of  the  people.  Men  of  genius 
found  through  it  a  new  voice,  and  the  attempt  to  per- 
fect, to  give  laws  and  a  form  to  the  instrument,  pro- 
gressed because  of  the  men  who  tried.  In  pre-Irvingian 
times  these  authors  employed  the  tale  for  the  by- 
products of  their  minds ;  since  then  it  has  served  to 
express  some  of  the  great  conceptions  of  their  genius. 
It  is  this,  with  its  new  purpose  as  a  Short  Story, -which 
best  accounts  for  the  chastening  of  its  form.  '- 

Except  in  one  instance,  which  is  the  vivid  expression 
of  single  incidents  or  detached  movements  of  life,  the 
Short  Story  is  not  to  be  chosen  before  the  novel ;  but  in 
its  capacity  for  perfection  of  structure,  for  nice  discrim- 
ination in  means,  and  for  a  satisfying  exposition  of  the 
full  power  of  words,  it  is  much  superior  to  the  novel,  and 
can  rank  below  only  the  poem.  But  the  novel  and  the 
Short  Story  are  distinct  instruments,  differently  de- 
signed, for  diverse  needs ;  and  with  such  a  point  of  view 
it  is  impossible  not  to  grant  to  the  latter  a  separate  use 
and  classification. 


A   LIST   OF   REPRESENTATIVE   TALES   AND 
SHORT  STORIES 

This  list,  while  presenting,  it  is  hoped,  a  fair  show- 
ing of  the  most  representative  tales  and  Short  Stories, 
is  intended  to  be  suggestive  merely,  and  indicative  of 
what  may  be  found  in  the  literatures  that  are  drawn 
upon.  Its  greatest  usefulness  will  be  in  connection  with 
a  library  catalogue.  For  this  reason,  the  titles  of  the  va- 
rious works  listed,  with  the  exception  of  the  Egyptian, 
Greek,  Hebrew,  Icelandic,  Latin,  and  Russian,  have  been 
left  in  their  original  form.  The  arrangement  is  chrono- 
logical as  far  as  the  year  is  concerned;  and  while  the 
classic  literatures  have  been  separated,  the  mediaeval  and 
modern,  because  of  their  closer  connection,  and  for  sim- 
plicity, have  been  grouped  together.  Stories  in  verse 
have  been  listed  after  the  mediaeval  period  only  in  the 
case  of  a  few  pressing  instances,  such  as  the  Fables  ( 1668- 
94)  of  La  Fontaine,  and  in  every  case  have  been  marked 
by  an  asterisk  (*).  Both  individual  stories  and  story  col- 
lections have  been  listed ;  and  the  dates,  as  far  as  possible, 
are  those  of  first  publication,  or  of  composition.  The 
question  of  distinction  between  the  conte  and  the  nou- 
velle,  the  roman  and  the  tale,  etc.,  has  been  insufficiently 
treated,  although  for  the  mediaeval  period  Ten  Brink  and 
Gaston  Paris  have  something  to  say  of  the  matter ;  and 
Ferdinand  Brunetiere,  in  his  Introduction  to  the  Balzac 
volume  of  the  Little  French  Masterpieces  series,  has  at- 
tempted to  differentiate  the  conte,  the  nouvelle,  and  the 
roman.  For  the  present  list  a  tale  has  been  defined 
as  a  short  narrative  of  one,  or  few,  events,  and  of  con- 
siderable simplicity  of  construction.  In  the  mediaeval 
period,  where  the  literary  species  are  well  marked,  it 
has  seemed  advisable  to  exclude  all  romans  d'aventure, 

29 


36  THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

retaining  only  such  prose  tales  as  Aiicassin  et  Nicolette 
to  serve  as  an  example  of  the  comparatively  simple  tale 
into  which  the  complicated  romance  may  easily  fall. 
After  the  Renaissance  it  is  more  difficult  to  draw  the 
line,  and  such  comparatively  long  works  as  Aphra 
Behn's  Oroonoko  (1688)  and  Voltaire's  Candide  (1758) 
have  been  listed  because  they  seem  to  belong  here 
rather  than  under  the  novel.  Other  things  being  equal, 
the  shorter  narratives  of  an  author  have  been  listed,  as 
nearer  the  ideal  of  the  tale.  The  modern  Short  Story 
seems  to  be  a  special  condition  of  the  tale  in  which  the 
story  is  told  with  a  certain  end  in  view  (see  introductory 
essay).  With  stories  of  this  kind  have  been  listed  oth- 
ers, such  as  Rip  Van  Winkle,  and  Wandering  Willie's 
Tale,  excellent  short  stories,  possessing  unity  of  impres- 
sion, but  not  the  conscious  impressionistic  purpose,  and 
the  resulting  form,  which  distinguishes  the  narratives 
for  which,  in  this  volume,  the  term  Short  Story,  both 
words  capitalized,  has  been  used. 


Egyptian  Papyrus  Stories  (4000  b.  c.  to  iooo  b.  c.)  : 

Tales  of  the  Magicians  (Vth  or  Vlth  Dynasties,  from  about 
4000  to  about  3000  B.  c.)  : 
Khafra's   Tale. 
Baufra's  Tale. 
Hordedef's  Tale. 
The  Peasant  and  the  Workman  (IXth  Dynasty,  about  3000 

B.  c). 
The  Shipwrecked  Sailor  (Xllth  Dynasty,  about  2500  b.  c). 
The   Adventures   of   Sanehat    (Xllth    Dynasty,   about   2100 

b.  c). 
The  Doomed  Prince  (XVIIIth  Dynasty,  about  1450  b.  c). 
Anpu  and  Bata  (XlXth  Dynasty,  about  1350  b.  c). 
Setna  and   the  Magic   Book    (XlXth   Dynasty,   about   1300 
B.  c). 


THE  SHIPWRECKED  SAILOR 


THE  SHIPWRECKED  SAILOR 

One  of  the  most  complete  documents  existing  on 
papyrus  is  the  story  of  The  Shipwrecked  Sailor.  The 
tale  itself  seems  to  date  from  a  very  early  period,  when 
imagination  could  still  have  full  play  in  Upper  Nubia. 
The  rapyrus,  which  apparently  is  of  the  age  of  the 
Xllth  Dynasty,  is  preserved  at  St,  Petersburg,  but  is 
still  unpublished. 

W.  M.  FHnders  Petrie  says,  in  his  Egyptian  Tales, 
of  the  stories  preserved  on  papyrus :  *'  It  will  be  no- 
ticed how  the  growth  of  the  novel  is  shadowed  out  in 
the  varied  grounds  and  treatment  of  the  tales.  The  ear- 
liest is  purely  a  collection  of  marvels  or  fabulous  inci- 
dents of  the  simplest  kind.  Then  we  advance  to  con- 
trasts between  town  and  country,  between  Egypt  and 
foreign  lands.  Then  personal  adventure,  and  the  inter- 
est in  schemes  and  successes,  becomes  the  staple  mate- 
rial; while  only  in  the  later  periods  does  character  come 
in  as  the  groundwork.  The  same  may  be  seen  in  Eng- 
lish Hterature — first  the  tales  of  wonders  and  strange 
lands,  then  the  novel  of  adventure,  and  lastly  the  novel 
of  character." 

Of  The  Shipwrecked  Sailor  itself  it  may  be  said  that 
the  construction  is  much  more  advanced  than  the  earlier 
Tales  of  the  Magicians,  of  the  Vth  or  Vlth  Dynasties. 
Says  Mr.  Petrie :  "  The  family  of  serpents  and  the  man- 
ner of  the  great  serpent  is  well  conceived,  and  there  are 
many  fine  touches  of  literary  quality:  such  as  noise  as  of 
thunder,  the  trees  shaking  and  the  earth  being  moved 
at  the  appearance  of  the  great  serpent — the  speeches  of 
the  serpent  and  his  threat — the  sailors  who  had  seen 
heaven  and  earth — the  contempt  of  the  serpent  for  his 
offerings    .    .    .    and  the  scene  of  departure.     All  of 

33 


34       THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

these  points  show  a  firm  hand  and  practised  taste, 
although  there  is  still  a  style  of  simplicity  cHnging  to  it 
which  agrees  well  with  its  date  in  the  Xllth  Dynasty. 
.  .  .  The  colophon  of  the  copyist  at  the  end  shows  by 
the  style  of  the  name  that  it  belongs  to  the  earlier  part 
of  the  Xllth  Dynasty;  and  if  so,  the  composition  might 
be  referred  to  the  opening  of  foreign  trade  under 
Sankhkara  or  Amenemhat  I."  Or,  roughly  speaking, 
about  the  year  2500  b.  c. 

The  idea  of  an  enchanted  island,  which  has  risen 
from  the  waves  and  will  sink  again,  is  seen  to  be  one  of 
the  very  oldest  plots  for  a  tale  of  marvels.  In  the  story 
of  The  Shipwrecked  Sailor  is  possibly  the  origin  of  The 
Story  of  Sindbad  the  Sailor,  of  The  Thousand  and  One 
Nights.  It  will  be  remembered  that  Sindbad  lands  on 
an  island  of  serpents  in  his  Third  Voyage. 

The  present  version  is  taken  from  Egyptian  Tales, 
by  W.  M.  Flinders  Petrie.  The  few  foot-notes  added  to 
the  story,  on  some  points  which  may  need  explanation, 
are  the  work  of  Francis  L.  Griffith. 


AUTHORITIES :  ^ 

Egyptian  Tales,  by  W.  M.  Flinders  Petrie. 
Egyptian  Archaeology,  by  Gaston  Maspero. 

*  The  lists  of  "authorities"  given  in  this  volume  make  no  at- 
tempt to  be  exhaustive,  or  to  include  "primary"  authorities.  Their 
purpose  is  to  refer  the  reader  to  the  most  accessible  and  reliable  means 
of  further  information  in  regard  to  the  literatures,  or  the  lives  and 
writings  of  the  authors,  in  question. — [Ed.] 


THE  SHIPWRECKED   SAILOR 


The  wise  servant  said :  "Let  thy  heart  be  satisfied,  O  my 
lord,  for  that  we  have  come  back  to  the  country;  after  we 
have  long  been  on  board,  and  rowed  much,  the  prow  has  at 
last  touched  land.  All  the  people  rejoice  and  embrace  us 
one  after  another.  Moreover,  we  have  come  back  in  good 
health,  and  not  a  man  is  lacking;  although  we  have  been 
to  the  ends  of  Wawat,^  and  gone  through  the  land  of  Senmut,' 
we  have  returned  in  peace,  and  our  land — behold,  we  have 
come  back  to  it.  Hear  me,  my  lord ;  I  have  no  other  refuge. 
Wash  thee  and  turn  the  water  over  thy  fingers,  then  go  and 
tell  the  tale  to  the  Majesty." 

His  lord  replied :  "  Thy  heart  continues  still  its  wander- 
ing words;  but  although  the  mouth  of  a  man  may  save  him, 
his  words  may  also  cover  his  face  with  confusion.  Wilt 
thou  do,  then,  as  thy  heart  moves  thee  ?  This  that  thou  wilt 
say,  tell  quietly." 

The  sailor  then  answered :  "  Now  I  shall  tell  that  which 
has  happened  to  me,  to  my  very  self.  I  was  going  to  the 
mines  of  Pharaoh,  and  I  went  down  on  the  Sea  ^  on  a  ship 
of  150  cubits  long  and  40  cubits  wide,  with  150  sailors  of  the 
best  of  Egypt,  who  had  seen  heaven  and  earth,  and  whose 
hearts  were  stronger  than  lions.  They  had  said  that  the 
wind  would  not  be  contrary,  or  that  there  would  be  none. 
But  as  we  approached  the  land  the  wind  arose,  and  threw 
up  waves  eight  cubits  high.  As  for  me,  I  seized  a  piece  of 
wood ;  but  those  who  were  in  the  vessel  perished,  without  one 
remaining.  A  wave  threw  me  on  an  island,  after  that  I  had 
been  three  days  alone,  without  a  companion  beside  my  own 
heart.    I  laid  me  in  a  thicket  and  the  shadow  covered  me. 

*  Lower  Nubia. — [Ed.] 

'  District  about  the  first  cataract. — [Ed.] 

•  A  name  often  applied  to  the  great  river  Nile. — [Ed.] 

35 


36       THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

Then  stretched  I  my  limbs  to  try  to  find  something  for  my 
mouth.  I  found  there  figs  and  grapes,  all  manner  of  good 
herbs,  berries  and  grain,  melons  of  all  kinds,  fishes  and 
birds.  Nothing  was  lacking.  And  I  satisfied  myself,  and 
left  on  the  ground  that  which  was  over,  of  what  my  arms 
had  been  filled  withal.  I  dug  a  pit,  I  lighted  a  fire,  and  I 
made  a  burnt-offering  unto  the  gods. 

"  Suddenly  I  heard  a  noise  as  of  thunder,  which  I  thought 
to  be  that  of  a  wave  of  the  sea.  The  trees  shook  and  the  earth 
was  moved.  I  uncovered  my  face,  and  I  saw  that  a  serpent 
drew  near.  He  was  thirty  cubits  long,  and  his  beard  greater 
than  two  cubits ;  his  body  was  as  overlaid  with  gold,  and  his 
colour  as  that  of  true  lazuH.    He  coiled  himself  before  me. 

"  Then  he  opened  his  mouth,  while  that  I  lay  on  my  face 
before  him,  and  he  said  to  me :  *  What  has  brought  thee,  what 
has  brought  thee,  little  one,  what  has  brought  thee?  If 
thou  sayest  not  speedily  what  has  brought  thee  to  this  isle, 
I  will  make  thee  know  thyself;  as  a  flame  thou  shalt  vanish; 
if  thou  tellest  me  not  something  I  have  not  heard,  or  which 
I  knew  not  before  thee.* 

"  Then  he  took  me  in  his  mouth  and  carried  me  to  his 
resting-place,  and  laid  me  down  without  any  hurt.  I  was 
whole  and  sound,  and  nothing  was  gone  from  me.  Then  he 
opened  his  mouth  against  me,  while  that  I  lay  on  my  face 
before  him,  and  he  said :  *  What  has  brought  thee,  what  has 
brought  thee,  little  one,  what  has  brought  thee  to  this  isle 
which  is  in  the  sea,  and  of  which  the  shores  are  in  the  midst 
of  the  waves  ? ' 

"  Then  I  replied  to  him,  and  holding  my  arms  low  before 
him,*  I  said  to  him :  *  I  was  embarked  for  the  mines  by  the 
order  of  the  Majesty,  in  a  ship;  150  cubits  was  its  length,  and 
the  width  of  it  40  cubits.  It  had  150  sailors  of  the  best  of 
Egypt,  who  had  seen  heaven  and  earth,  and  the  hearts  of 
whom  were  stronger  than  lions.  They  said  that  the  wind 
would  not  be  contrary,  or  that  there  would  be  none.  Each 
of  them  exceeded  his  companion  in  the  prudence  of  his 
heart  and  the  strength  of  his  arm,  and  I  was  not  beneath 
any  of  them.    A  storm  came  upon  us  while  we  were  on  the 

*  The  usual  Egyptian  attitude  of  respect  to  a  superior  was  to 
Stand  bent  slightly  forward,  holding  the  arms  downward. — [Ed.] 


THE  SHIPWRECKED  SAILOR  37 

sea.  Hardly  could  we  reach  to  the  shore  when  the  wind  waxed 
yet  greater,  and  the  waves  rose  even  eight  cubits.  As  for 
me,  I  seized  a  piece  of  wood,  while  those  who  were  in  the 
boat  perished  without  one  being  left  with  me  for  three  days. 
Behold  me  now  before  thee,  for  I  was  brought  to  this  isle 
by  a  wave  of  the  sea.' 

"  Then  said  he  to  me :  *  Fear  not,  fear  not,  little  one,  and 
make  not  thy  face  sad.  If  thou  hast  come  to  me,  it  is  God  ^ 
who  has  let  thee  live.  For  it  is  he  who  has  brought  thee  to 
this  isle  of  the  blest,  where  nothing  is  lacking,  and  which 
is  filled  with  all  good  things.  See  now,  thou  shalt  pass  one 
month  after  another,  until  thou  shalt  be  four  months  in  this 
isle.  Then  a  ship  shall  come  from  thy  land  with  sailors, 
and  thou  shalt  leave  with  them  and  go  to  thy  country,  and 
thou  shalt  die  in  thy  town. 

"  *  Converse  is  pleasing,  and  he  who  tastes  of  it  passes 
over  his  misery.  I  will  therefore  tell  thee  of  that  which  is 
in  this  isle.  I  am  here  with  my  brethren  and  my  children 
around  me;  we  are  seventy-five  serpents,  children  and  kin- 
dred; without  naming  a  young  girl  who  was  brought  unto 
me  by  chance,  and  on  whom  the  fire  of  heaven  fell,  and  burnt 
her  to  ashes. 

" '  As  for  thee,  if  thou  art  strong,  and  if  thy  heart  waits 
patiently,  thou  shalt  press  thy  infants  to  thy  bosom  and  em- 
brace thy  wife.  Thou  shalt  return  to  thy  house  which  is 
full  of  all  good  things,  thou  shalt  see  thy  land,  where  thou 
shalt  dwell  in  the  midst  of  thy  kindred ! ' 

"  Then  I  bowed,  in  my  obeisance,  and  I  touched  the 
ground  before  him.  '  Behold  now  that  which  I  have  told 
thee  before.  I  shall  tell  of  thy  presence  unto  Pharaoh,  I 
shall  make  him  to  know  of  thy  greatness,  and  I  will  bring  to 
thee  of  the  sacred  oils  and  perfumes,  and  of  incense  of  the 
temples  with  which  all  gods  are  honoured.  I  shall  tell,  more- 
over, of  that  which  I  do  now  see  (thanks  to  him),  and  there 
shall  be  rendered  to  thee  praises  before  the  fulness  of  all 
the  land.    I  shall  slay  asses  for  thee  in  sacrifice,  I  shall  pluck 

'  The  polytheistic  Egyptians  frequently  used  the  term  Goc/  with- 
out  specifying  any  particular  deity  :  perhaps,  too,  in  their  own 
minds  they  did  not  define  the  idea,  but  applied  it  simply  to  some 
general  notion  of  Divinity.— [Ed.] 


38      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

for  thee  the  birds,  and  I  shall  bring  for  thee  ships  full  of  all 
kinds  of  the  treasures  of  Egypt,  as  is  comely  to  do  unto  a 
god,  a  friend  of  men  in  a  far  country,  of  which  men  know 
not.' 

"  Then  he  smiled  at  my  speech,  because  of  that  which 
W&8  in  his  heart,  for  he  said  to  me :  *  Thou  art  not  rich  in 
perfumes,  for  all  that  thou  hast  is  but  common  incense.  As 
for  me,  I  am  a  prince  of  the  land  of  Punt,*  and  I  have  per- 
fumes. Only  the  oil  which  thou  saidst  thou  wouldst  bring 
is  not  common  in  this  isle.  But,  when  thou  shalt  depart  from 
this  place,  thou  shalt  never  more  see  this  isle;  it  shall  be 
changed  into  waves.' 

"  And  behold,  when  the  ship  drew  near,  according  to  all 
that  he  had  told  me  before,  I  got  me  up  into  an  high  tree,  to 
strive  to  see  those  who  were  within  it.  Then  I  came  and 
told  to  him  this  matter;  but  it  was  already  known  unto  him 
before.  Then  he  said  to  me :  *  Farewell,  farewell,  go  to  thy 
house,  little  one,  see  again  thy  children,  and  let  thy  name 
be  good  in  thy  town ;  these  are  my  wishes  for  thee ! ' 

"  Then  I  bowed  myself  before  him,  and  held  my  arms  low 
before  him,  and  he,  he  gave  me  gifts  of  precious  perfumes, 
of  cassia,  of  sweet  woods,  of  kohl,  of  cypress,  an  abundance 
of  incense,  of  ivory  tusks,  of  baboons,  of  apes,  and  all  kinds 
of  precious  things.  I  embarked  all  in  the  ship  which  was 
come,  and  bowing  myself,  I  prayed  God  for  him. 

"  Then  he  said  to  me :  *  Behold,  thou  shalt  come  to  thy 
country  in  two  months,  thou  shalt  press  to  thy  bosom  thy 
children,  and  thou  shalt  rest  in  thy  tomb ! '  After  this  I  went 
down  to  the  shore  unto  the  ship,  and  I  called  to  the  sailors 
who  were  there.  Then  on  the  shore  I  rendered  adoration  to 
the  master  of  this  isle  and  to  those  who  dwelt  therein. 

"  When  we  shall  come,  in  our  return,  to  the  house  of 
Pharaoh,  in  the  second  month,  according  to  all  that  the  ser- 
pent has  said,  we  shall  approach  unto  the  palace.  And  I 
shall  go  in  before  Pharaoh,  I  shall  bring  the  gifts  which  I 
have  brought  from  this  isle  into  the  country.  Then  he 
shall  thank  me  before  the  fulness  of  all  the  land.     Grant 

*  Punt  was  the  "land  of  spices"  to  the  Egyptian,  and  thence, 
too,  the  finest  incense  was  brought  for  the  temple  services.  It  in. 
eluded  Somaliland  in  Africa,  and  the  south  of  Arabia. — [Ed.] 


THE  SHIPWRECKED  SAILOR  39 

then  unto  me  a  follower,  and  lead  me  to  the  courtiers  of  the 
King.  Cast  thine  eye  upon  me  after  that  I  am  come  to  land 
again,  after  that  I  have  both  seen  and  proved  this.  Hear  my 
prayer,  for  it  is  good  to  listen  to  people.  It  was  said  unto  me : 
*  Become  a  wise  man,  and  thou  shalt  come  to  honour,'  and 
behold  I  have  become  such." 

This  is  finished  from  its  beginning  unto  its  end,  even  as 
it  was  found  in  a  writing.  It  is  written  by  the  scribe  of 
cunning  fingers,  Ameni-amen-aa ;  may  he  live  in  life,  wealth, 
and  health !  • 


,   ^ 


^ 


A   LIST   OF   REPRESENTATIVE   TALES   AND 
SHORT  STpRIES 

II 

»  Greek  (looo  b.  c.  to  500  a.  d.)  : 

Early  Greek: 

♦The  Story  of  CEneus  and  Meleager,  Homer,  Iliad  (about 
the  9th  century  b.  c.)- 

*  The  Story  of  Ares  and  Aphrodite,  Homer,  Odyssey  (about 

the  9th  century  b.  c). 

*  The  Story  of  Polyphemus,  Homer,  Odyssey  (about  the  9th 

century  b.  c). 

*  The  Story  of  Pandora,  Hesiod,  Works  and  Days   (about 

the  9th  century  b.  c). 

*  The  Story  of  Prometheus,  Hesiod,  Theogony  (about  the 

9th  century  b.  c.)- 
The  Story  of  Arion  and  the  Dolphin,  Herodotus,  History 

(5th  century  b.  c). 
The  Story  of  Polycrates  and  the  Ring,  Herodotus,  History 

(5th  century  b.  c). 
The  Story  of  Abradates  and  Panthea,  Xenophon,  Cyropsedia 

(4th  century  b.  c). 
The  Island  of  Atlantis,  Plato,  Critias  (4th  century  b.  c). 
The  Man  Er's  Visit  to  the  Place  of  Departed  Souls,  Plato, 

Republic  (4th  century  b.  c). 
The  Creation  of  Man,  Plato,  Timseus  (4th  century  b.  c). 

Late  Greek: 

Tales,  Parthenius  of  Nicaea  (ist  century  b.  c). 

The   Hunter   of   Euboea,    Dion   Chrysostomus    (ist   century 

A.    D.). 

*  The  Fables  of  ^sop,  Babrius  (about  the  3d  century  a.  d.). 
Cnemon's  Story,  Heliodorus,  -^thiopica  (about  the  4th  cen- 
tury A.  D.). 

4  41 


42       THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

Hebrew   (about  450  b.  c.  to  the  time  of  christ)  : 

The  Book  of  Ruth,  Bible  (about  450  b.  c). 

The  Book  of  Jonah,  Bible  (about  300  b.  c). 

Story  of   Shadrach,    Meshach,  and  Abednego;    Bible,    The 

Book  of  Daniel  (about  200  b.  c). 
The  Book  of  Esther,  Bible  (about  2d  century  b.  c). 
The  Book  of  Tobit,   Bible,  Apocrypha   (about  2d  century 

B.  c). 
The   Book  of  Judith,  Bible,  Apocrypha   (about  2d  century 

B.  c). 
The  History  of  Susanna,  Bible,  Apocrypha  (about  ist  century 

A.   D.) 

Bel  and  the  Dragon,  Bible,  Apocrypha   (about  ist  century 

A.  D.). 


THE  BOOK  OF  RUTH 


THE    BOOK   OF   RUTH 

The;^  Book  of  Ruth  is  a  sequel  to  The  Book  of 
Judges,  though  in  the  Hebrew  Canon  it  does  not  imme- 
diately follow  it,  as  it  does  in  English  editions  of  the 
Bible,  but  forms  part  of  the  Hagiographa,  or  last  divis- 
ion of  the  Canon.  It  serves  to  connect  the  period  of  the 
Judges  with  the  monarchy,  and  supplies  an  important 
link  in  the  ancestry  of  David.  No  certain  date  can  be 
assigned  for  its  authorship,  but  it  was  probably  written 
long  after  the  time  of  David.  David  reigned  from  about 
1055  to  10 1 5  B.  c. ;  perhaps  the  nearest  date  assignable 
for  the  authorship  of  The  Book  of  Ruth  is  about  450  b.  c. 
But  some  authorities  give  it  a  still  later  date. 

In  regard  to  the  literary  character  of  The  Book  of 
Ruth,  Richard  G.  Moulton  says,  in  his  introduction  to 
Ruth  in  The  Modern  Reader's  Bible: 

"  The  Book  of  Ruth  is  the  very  ideal  and  type  of  the 
Idyl:  so  delicate  in  its  transparent  simplicity  that  the 
worst  service  one  can  do  the  story  is  to  comment  on  it. 
Suffice  it  to  say,  that  the  warp  and  woof  of  the  tale  is  a 
friendship  between  two  women,  and  the  grand  climax  up 
to  which  all  is  working  is  the  birth  of  a  baby.  Instead  of 
war,  of  national  strife,  of  poHtical  struggle,  we  have  here 
great  harvest  festivals,  ceremonial  transfers  of  land,  fam- 
ily contingencies  such  as  hard  times  and  emigration, 
marriage,  and  the  strange  process  by  which  an  extinct 
family  might  be  restored  to  the  genealogies  of  Israel: 
such  little  things  as  are  great  to  the  little  man  of  every- 
day life.  Even  in  the  little  there  are  gradations :  in  this 
book  are  found  such  minutiae  as  attentions  shown  to  a  shy 

45 


46  »    THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

stranger  girl  at  the  harvest  feast,  petty  contrivances  for 
giving  her  unfair  advantages  in  the  gleaning  field;  de- 
tails still  more  minute — how  Ruth  pockets  the  scraps  at 
the  feast  to  bring  home  to  her  mother-in-law,  who  has 
been  sitting  solitary  at  home  while  she  herself  has  had 
the  excitement  of  the  harvesting.  Trifles  like  these,  fit- 
ted into  their  natural  frame  the  Idyl,  have  kept  afloat 
over  some  thirty  centuries  of  time;  and  this  story  has 
done  more  to  enable  us  to  live  over  again  in  remote 
Hebrew  antiquity  than  all  the  heroic  achievements  of 
Joshua  and  Judges  put  together." 

Various  objects  have  been  suggested  for  The  Book 
of  Ruth :  that  it  was  written  to  give  an  account  of 
David's  ancestors;  to  enforce  the  obligation  to  marry  a 
kinsman's  widow ;  as  a  counterblast  to  Ezra's  crusade 
against  foreign  wives.  "  But,"  suggests  W.  H.  Bennett, 
''  was  any  other  motive  necessary  than  the  simple  pleas- 
ure of  telling  a  charming  and  edifying  story?  " 

The  version  of  The  Book  of  Ruth  here  presented  is 
the  authorised,  or  King  James,  translation.  But  the 
descriptive  chapter-headings  have  been  omitted,  and  the 
verses  merged  in  paragraphs;  the  punctuation  has  been 
somewhat  modernised. 

AUTHORITIES  *. 

The  Literary  Study  of  the  Bible,  by  Richard  G. 
Moulton. 

A  Primer  of  the  Bible,  by  W.  H.  Bennett. 

An  Introduction  to  the  Literature  of  the  Old  Testa- 
ment, by  Samuel  R.  Driver. 


THE    BOOK    OF    RUTH 


Now  it  came  to  pass  in  the  days  when  the  judges  ruled, 
that  there  was  a  famine  in  the  land.  And  a  certain  man  of 
Beth-lehem-Judah  went  to  sojourn  in  the  country  of  Moab, 
he,  and  his  wife,  and  his  two  sons.  And  the  name  of  the 
man  was  Elimelech,  and  the  name  of  his  wife  Naomi,  and 
the  name  of  his  two  sons  Mahlon  and  Chilion,  Ephrathites 
of  Beth-lehem-Judah.  And  they  came  into  the  country  of 
Moab,  and  continued  there.  And  Elimelech  Naomi's  hus- 
band died;  and  she  was  left,  and  her  two  sons.  And  they 
took  them  wives  of  the  women  of  Moab;  the  name  of  the 
one  was  Orpah,  and  the  name  of  the  other  Ruth :  and  they 
dwelled  there  about  ten  years.  And  Mahlon  and  Chilion 
died  also  both  of  them;  and  the  woman  was  left  of  her  two 
sons  and  her  husband. 

Then  she  arose  with  her  daughters-in-law,  that  she  might 
return  from  the  country  of  Moab:  for  she  had  heard  in  the 
country  of  Moab  how  that  the  Lord  had  visited  his  people 
in  giving  them  bread.  Wherefore  she  went  forth  out  of  the 
place  where  she  was,  and  her  two  daughters-in-law  with  her ; 
and  they  went  on  the  way  to  return  unto  the  land  of  Judah. 
And  Naomi  said  unto  her  two  daughters-in-law:  Go,  return 
each  to  her  mother's  house ;  the  Lord  deal  kindly  with  you, 
as  ye  have  dealt  with  the  dead,  and  with  me.  The  Lord 
grant  you  that  ye  may  find  rest,  each  of  you  in  the  house  of 
her  husband.  Then  she  kissed  them;  and  they  lifted  up  their 
voice  and  wept.  And  they  said  unto  her:  Surely  we  will 
return  with  thee  unto  thy  people.  And  Naomi  said :  Turn 
again,  my  daughters;  why  will  ye  go  with  me?  are  there 
yet  any  more  sons  in  my  womb,  that  they  may  be  your 
husbands?  Turn  again,  my  daughters,  go  your  wiiy;  for  I 
am  too  old  to  have  an  husband.  H  I  should  say :  I  hav^e  hope ; 
if  I  should  have  an  husband  also  to-night,  and  should  also 
bear  sons,  would  ye  tarry  for  them  till  they  were  grown? 

47 


48      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

would  ye  stay  for  them  from  having  husbands^  nay,  my 
daughters;  for  it  grieveth  me  much  for  your  sakes  that  the 
hand  of  the  Lord  is  gone  out  against  me.  And  they  lifted  up 
their  voice,  and  wept  again ;  and  Orpah  kissed  her  mother-in- 
law;  but  Ruth  clave  unto  her.  And  she  said:  Behold,  thy 
sister-in-law  is  gone  back  unto  her  people  and  unto  her  gods; 
return  thou  after  thy  sister-in-law.    And  Ruth  said: 

Intreat  me  not  to  leave  thee,  or  to  return  from  following 
after  thee:  for  whither  thou  goest,  I  will  go;  and  where 
thou  lodgest,  I  will  lodge;  thy  people  shall  be  my  people, 
and  thy  God  my  God :  where  thou  diest,  will  I  die,  and  there 
will  I  be  buried :  the  Lord  do  so  tp  me,  and  more  also,  if 
ought  but  death  part  thee  and  me. 

When  she  saw  that  she  was  steadfastly  minded  to  go 
with  her,  then  she  left  speaking  unto  her. 

So  they  two  went  until  they  came  to  Beth-lehem.  And 
it  came  to  pass  when  they  were  come  to  Beth-lehem,  that 
all  the  city  was  moved  about  them,  and  they  said:  Is  this 
Naomi  ?  And  she  said  unto  them :  Call  me  not  Naomi,^call 
me  Mara ;  for  the  Almighty  hath  dealt  very  bitterly  with  m€. 
I  went  out  full,  and  the  Lord  hath  brought  me  home  again 
empty :  why  call  ye  me  Naomi,  seeing  the  Lord  ha^i  testified 
against  me,  and  the  Almighty  hath  afflicted  me?  iSo  Naomi 
returned,  and  Ruth  the  Moabitess,  her  daughter-in-law,  with 
her,  which  returned  out  of  the  country  of  Moab:  and  they 
came  to  Beth-lehem  in  the  beginning  of  barley  harvest. 


II 

And  Naomi  had  a  kinsman  of  her  husband's,  a  mighty 
man  of  wea^h,  of  the  family  of  Elimelech ;  and  his  name 
was  Boaz.  f^And  Ruth  the  Moabitess  said  unto  Naomi :  Let 
me  now  go  to  the  field,  and  glean  ears  of  corn  after  him 
in  whose  sight  I  shall  find  grace.  And  she  said  unto  her :  Go, 
my  daughter.  And  she  went,  and  came,  and  gleaned  in  the 
field  after  the  reapers:  and  her  hap  was  to  light  on  a  part 
of  the  field  belonging  unto  Boaz,  who  was  of  the  kindred  of 
Elimelech.  And,  behold,  Boaz  came  from  Beth-lehem,  and 
said  unto  the  reapers :  The  Lord  be  with  you.  And  they  an- 
swered him :  The  Lord  bless  thee.  Then  said  Boaz  unto  his 
servant  /that  was  set  over  the  reapers :  Whose  damsel  is  this  ? 


THE  BOOK  OF  RUTH  49 

And  the  servant  that  was  set  over  the  reapers  answered  and 
said :  It  is  the  Moabitish  damsel  that  came  back  with  Naomi 
out  of  the  country  of  Moab;  and  she  said:  I  pray  you,  let 
me  glean,  and  gather  after  the  reapers  among  the  sheaves: 
so  she  came,  and  hath  continued  even  from  the  mojpning 
until  now,  save  that  she  tarried  a  little  in  the  house.  Then 
said  Boaz  unto  Ruth :  Hearest  thou  not,  my  daughter  ?  Go 
not  to  glean  in  another  field,  neither  go  from  hence,  but 
abide  here  fast  by  my  maidens.  Let  thine  eyes  be  on  the 
field  th^t  they  do  reap,  and  go  thou  after  them:  have  I  not 
charged  the  young  men  that  they  shall  not  touch  thee?  and 
when  thou  art  athirst,  go  unto  the  vessels,  and  drink  of  that 
which  the  young  men  have  drawn.  Then  she  fell  on  her 
face,  and  bowed  herself  to  the  ground,  and  said  unto  him: 
Why  have  I  found  grace  in  thine  eyes,  that  thou  shouldst 
take  knowledge  of  me,  seeing  I  am  a  stranger?  And  Boaz 
answered  and  said  unto  her:  It  hath  fully  been  shewed  me, 
all  that  thou  hast  done  unto  thy  mother-in-law  since  the  death 
of  thine  husband ;  and  how  thou  hast  left  thy  father  and  thy 
mother,  and  the  land  of  thy  nativity,  and  art  come  unto  a 
people  which  thou  knewest  not  heretofore.  The  Lord  recom- 
pense thy  work,  and  a  full  reward  be  given  thee  of  the  Lord 
God  of  Israel,  under  whose  wings  thou  art  come  to  trust. 
Then  she  said:  Let  me  find  favour  in  thy  sight,  my  lord; 
for  that  thou  hast  comforted  me,  and  for  that  thou  hast 
spoken  friendly  unto  thine  handmaid,  though  I  be  not  like 
unto  one  of  thine  handmaidens.  And  Boaz  said  unto  her: 
At  mealtime  come  thou  hither,  and  eat  of  the  bread,  and  dip 
thy  morsel  in  the  vinegar.  And  she  sat  beside  the  reapers; 
and  he  reached  her  parched  corn,  and  she  did  eat,  and  was 
sufficed,  and  left.  And  when  she  was  risen  up  to  glean,  Boaz 
commanded  his  young  men,  saying:  Let  her  glean  even  among 
the  sheaves,  and  reproach  her  not;  and  let  fall  also  some  of 
the  handfuls  of  purpose  for  her,  and  leave  them,  that  she 
may  glean  them,  and  rebuke  her  not.  So  she  gleaned  in  the 
field  until  even;  and  beat  out  that  she  had  gleaned,  and  it 
was  about  an  ephah  of  barley. 

And  she  took  it  up,  and  went  into  the  city:  and  her 
mother-in-law  saw  what  she  had  gleaned;  and  she  brought 
forth,  and  gave  to  her  that  she  had  reserved  after  she  was 
sufficed.    And  her  mother-in-law  said  unto  her:  Where  hast 


so       THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

thou  gleaned  to-day?  and  where  wroughtest  thou?  blessed  be 
he  that  did  take  knowledge  of  thee.  And  she  shewed  her 
mother-in-law  with  whom  she  had  wrought,  and  said:  The 
man's  name  with  whom  I  wrought  to-day  is  Boaz.  And 
Naomi  said  unto  her  daughter-in-law:  Blessed  be  he  of  the 
Lord,  who  hath  not  left  off  his  kindness  to  the  living  and  to 
the  dead.  And  Naomi  said  unto  her :  The  man  is  near  of  kin 
unto  us,  one  of  our  next  kinsmen.  And  Ruth  the  Moabitess 
said :  He  said  unto  me  also.  Thou  shalt  keep  fast  by  my  young 
men,  until  they  have  ended  all  my  harvest.  And  Naomi  said 
unto  Ruth  her  daughter-in-law :  It  is  good,  my  daughter,  that 
thou  go  out  with  his  maidens,  that  they  meet  thee  not  in  any 
other  field.^So  she  kept  fast  by  the  maidens  of  Boaz  to  glean 
unto  the  end  of  barley  harvest  and  of  wheat  harvest;  and 
dwelt  with  her  mother-in-law.    "^ 

III 

Then  Naomi  her  mother-in-law  said  unto  her :  My  daugh- 
ter, shall  I  not  seek  rest  for  thee,  that  it  may  be  well  with 
thee?  And  now  is  not  Boaz  of  our  kindred,  with  whose 
maidens  thou  wast?  Behold,  he  winnoweth  barley  to-night 
in  the  threshing-floor.  Wash  thyself  therefore,  and  anoint 
thee,  and  put  thy  raiment  upon  thee,  and  get  thee  down  to  the 
floor ;  but  make  not  thyself  known  unto  the  man,  until  he  shall 
have  done  eating  and  drinking.  And  it  shall  be,  when  he 
lieth  down,  that  thou  shalt  mark  the  place  where  he  shall  lie, 
and  thou  shalt  go  in,  and  uncover  his  feet,  and  lay  thee  down ; 
and  he  will  tell  thee  what  thou  shalt  do.  And  she  said  unto 
her:  All  that  thou  sayest  unto  me  I  will  do. 

And  she  went  down  unto  the  floor,  and  did  according  to 
all  that  her  mother-in-law  bade  her.  And  when  Boaz  had 
eaten  and  drunk,  and  his  heart  was  merry,  he  went  to  lie 
down  at  the  end  of  the  heap  of  corn :  and  she  came  softly,  and 
uncovered  his  feet,  and  laid  her  down.  And  it  came  to  pass 
at  midnight,  that  the  man  was  afraid,  and  turned  himself: 
and,  behold,  a  woman  lay  at  his  feet.  And  he  said :  Who  art 
thou  ?  And  she  answered :  I  am  Ruth  thine  handmaid ;  spread 
therefore  thy  skirt  over  thine  handmaid ;  for  thou  art  a  near 
kinsman.  And  he  said:  Blessed  be  thou  of  the  Lord,  my 
daughter;  thou  hast  shewed  more  kindness  in  the  latter  end 
than  at  the  beginning,  inasmuch  as  thou  followedst  not  young 


THE  BOOK  OF  RUTH  51 

mefi,  whether  poor  or  rich.  And  now,  my  daughter,  fear  not ; 
I  will  do  to  thee  all  that  thou  requirest ;  for  all  the  city  of  my 
people  doth  know  that  thou  art  a  virtuous  woman.  And  now 
it  is  true  that  I  am  thy  near  kinsman  :4imvt>«i4-4j^e-i*^a  kins- 
man nearer  rfrafi-,!.  Tarry  this  night,  and  it  shall  be  in  the 
morning,  that  if  he  will  perform  unto  thee  the  part  of  a  kins- 
man, well ;  let  him  do  the  kinsman's  part :  but  if  he  will  not 
do  the  part  of  a  kinsman  to  thee,  then  will  I  do  the  part  of 
a  kinsman  to  thee,  as  the  Lord  liveth;  lie  down  until  the 
morning.  And  she  lay  at  his  feet  until  the  morning :  and  she 
rose  up  before  one  could  know  another.  And  he  said :  feet-it 
not  be  known  that  a  woman  came  into  the  floor.  Also  he  said : 
Bring  the  vail  that  thou  hast  upon  thee,  and  hold  it.  And 
when  she  held  it  he  measured  six  measures  of  barley,  and 
laid  it  on  her:  and  she  went  into  the  city.  And  when  she 
came  to  her  mother-in-law,  she  said :  Who  art  thou,  my 
daughter?  And  she  told  her  all  that  the  man  had  done  to  her. 
And  she  said :  These  six  measures  of  barley  gave  he  me ;  for 
he  said :  Go  not  empty  unto  thy  mother-in-law.  Then  said 
she :  Sit  still,  my  daughter,  until  thou  know  how  the  matter 
will  fall ;  for  the  man  will  not  rest,  until  he  have  finished  the 
thing  this  day. 

IV 

Tl^en  Boaz  went  up  to  the  gate,  and  sat  him  down  there : 
and,  behold,  the  near  kinsman  of  whom  Boaz  spake  came 
by ;  unto  whom  he  said :  Ho,  such  a  one  !  turn  aside,  sit  down 
here.  And  he  turned  aside,  and  sat  down.  And  he  took  ten 
men  of  the  elders  of  the  city,  and  said :  Sit  ye  down  here.  And 
they  sat  down.  And  he  said  unto  the  kinsman :  Naomi,  that 
is  come  again  out  of  the  country  of  Moab,  selleth  a  parcel  of 
land,  which  was  our  brother  Elimelech's:  and  I  thought  to 
advertise  thee,  saying:  Buy  it  before  them  that  sit  here,  and 
before  the  elders  of  my  people.  If  thou  wilt  redeem  it,  re- 
deem it;  but  if  thou  wilt  not  redeem  it,  then  tell  me,  that  I 
may  know :  for  there  is  none  to  redeem  it  beside  thee ;  and  I 
am  after  thee.  And  he  said:  I  will  redeem  it.  Then  said 
Boaz :  What  day  thou  buyest  the  field  of  the  hand  of  Naomi, 
thou  must  buy  it  also  of  Ruth  the  Moabitess,  the  wife  of  the 
dead,  to  raise  up  the  name  of  the  dead  upon  his  inheritance. 
And  the  near  kinsman  said:  I  cannot  redeem  it  for  myself, 


52      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

lest  I  mar  mine  own  inheritance;  redeem  thou  my  right  to 
thyself,  for  I  cannot  redeem  it. 

Now  this  was  the  manner  in  former  time  in  Israel  con- 
cerning redeeming  and  concerning  changing,  for  to  confirm 
all  things:  a  man  plucked  off  his  shoe,  and  gave  it  to  his^ 
neighbour;  and\this  was  a  testimony  in  Israel.  Therefore 
the  kinsman  said'^nnto  Boaz:  Buy  it  for  thee.  So  he  drew 
off  his  shoe.  And'^^oaz  said  unto  the  elders,  and  unto  all 
the  people :  Ye  are  wl^iiesses  this  day,  that  I  have  bought  all 
that  was  Elimelech's,  anti  all  that  was  Chilion's  and  Mahlon's, 
of  the  hand  of  Naomi.  Moreover  Ruth  the  Moabitess,  the 
wife  of  Mahlon,  have  I  pof chased  to  be  my  wife,  to  raise 
up  the  name  of  the  dead  upoi^  his  inheritance,  that  the  name 
of  the  dead  be  not  cut  off  fronjN^tnong  his  brethren,  and  from 
the  gate  of  his  place^j^e-are  witnesses  this  day.  And  all  the 
people  that  wer^-ifTthe  gate,  and  the  elders,  said:  We  are 
witnesses. 

The  Lord  make  the  woman  that  is  come  into  thine  house 
like  Rachel  and  like  Leah,  which  two  did  build  the  house  of 
Israel ;  and  do  thou  worthily  in  Ephratah,  and  be  famous  in 
Beth-lehem:  and  let  thy  house  be  like  the  house  of  Pharez, 
whom  Tamar  bare  unto  Judah,  of  the  seed  which  the  Lord 
shall  give  thee  of  this  young  woman. 

So  Boaz  took  Ruth,  and  she  was  his  wife:  and  when 
he  went  in  unto  her,  the  Lord  gave  her  conception,  and  she 
bare  a  son.    And  the  women  said  unto  Naomi : 

Blessed  be  the  Lord,  which  hath  not  left  thee  this  day 
without  a  kinsman,  that  his  name  may  be  famous  in  Israel. 
And  he  shall  be  unto  thee  a  restorer  of  thy  life,  and  a  nour- 
isher  of  thine  old  age :  for  thy  daughter-in-law,  which  loveth 
thee,  which  is  better  to  thee  than  seven  sons,  hath  borne  him. 

And  Naomi  took  the  child,  and  laid  it  in  her  bosom,  and 
became  nurse  unto  it.  And  the  women  her  neighbours  gave 
it  a  name,  saying:  There  is  a  son  born  to  Naomi;  and  they 
called  his  name  Obed :  he  is  the  father  of  Jesse,  the  father  of 
David. 

"Now  these  are  the  generations  of  Pharez:  Pharez  begat 
Hezron,  and  Hezron  begat  Ram,  and  Ram  begat  Amminadab, 
and  Amminadab  begat  Nahshon,  and  Nahshon  begat  Salmon, 
and  Salmon  begat  Boaz,  and  Boaz  begat  Obed,  and  Obed 
begat  Jesse,  and  Jesse  begat  David. 


A    LIST    OF    REPRESENTATIVE    TALES    AND 
SHORT   STORIES 

III 
Latin  (300  b.  c.  to  the  fall  of  rome)  : 

*  The  Fable  of  the  Tufted  Lark,  Ennius,  Satires  (3d  cen- 

tury B.  c). 

*  The  City  Mouse  and  the  Country  Mouse,  Horace,  Satires 

(ist  century  b.  c). 
♦Metamorphoses,  Ovid  (ist  century  b.  c). 

*  Fables,  Phaedrus  (ist  century  a.  d.). 

Trimalchio's  Banquet,  Petronius  Arbiter,  Satires  (ist  cen- 
tury A.  D.). 

The  Matron  of  Ephesus,  Petronius  Arbiter,  Satires  (ist 
century  a.  d.). 

Tales,  Pliny  the  Younger,  Letters  (ist  century  a.  d.). 

The  Story  of  Cupid  and  Psyche,  Lucius  Apuleius,  The 
Golden  Ass  (2d  century  a.  d.). 

Eastern   Tale  Collections: 

The  Buddhist  Jataka  (about  400  b.  c). 

The  Brahmanical  Panchatantra  (about  300  a.  d,). 

The  Fables  of  Pilpay  (8th  century  a.  d.).  These  contain 
much  material  from  the  two  preceding,  and  many  of 
them  passed  into  mediaeval  literature  through  the 
Directorium  Vitae  Humanse  of  John  of  Capua  (1270). 

53 


THE  STORY  OF  CUPID  AND  PSYCHE 


THE   STORY   OF   CUPID   AND   PSYCHE 


The  Golden  Ass,  also  called  The  Metamorphoses, 
was  written  by  Lucius  Apuleius  (born  about  125  a.  d.), 
and  was  probably  his  earliest  work.  It  imitated  a  portion 
of  The  Metamorphoses  of  Lucian ;  or  perhaps  rather, 
both  Lucian  and  Apuleius  were  indebted  to  an  earlier 
writer,  Lucius  of  Patrae.  The  best-known  episode  is  that 
of  Cupid  and  Psyche,  founded  on  a  popular  legend  or 
myth  of  Grecian  origin.  Some  of  the  adventures  of  Don 
Quixote  and  of  Gil  Bias  are  drawn  from  The  Golden  Ass, 
and  Bocaccio  has  used  many  of  the  comic  episodes. 
The  author  relates  the  story  in  his  own  person.  His 
dabbling  in  magic  results  in  his  transformation  into  an 
ass ;  in  which  form,  however,  he  retains  his  human  intel- 
ligence. As  to  the  origin  of  the  epithet  golden,  as  applied 
to  this  romance,  Dunlop  says  in  his  History  of  Prose 
Fiction : 

**  It's  readers,  on  account  of  its  excellence,  as  is  gen- 
erally supposed,  added  the  epithet  of  golden.  Warburton, 
however,  conjectures,  from  the  beginning  of  one  of 
Pliny's  epistles,  that  Aurece  {golden)  was  the  common 
title  given  to  the  Milesian,  and  such  tales  as  strollers 
used  to  tell  for  a  piece  of  money  to  the  rabble  in  a  circle : 
*  Assem  para  et  accipe  auream  fabulam.'  These  Milesian 
fables  were  much  in  vogue  in  the  age  of  Apuleius." 

The  beautiful  Story  of  Cupid  and  Psyche  is  in  extreme 
contrast  with  the  body  of  the  Golden  Ass.  Apuleius 
perfected  this  wild  flower  of  ancient  folk-lore  into  a  per- 
ennial plant  that  has  blossomed  ever  since  along  the 
paths  of  literature  and  art.  The  story  has  been  accepted 
5  57 


5^       THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

as  a  fitting  embodiment  of  the  struggle  of  the  soul  to- 
wards a  higher  perfection.  It  is  not  only  its  pleasing  exe- 
cution, it  is  the  enduring  beauty  of  the  conception  that 
has  continued  to  fascinate.  Hence  we  may  say  of  The 
Golden  Ass  in  its  entirety,  that  whether  readers  are  in- 
terested in  esoteric  meanings  to  be  divined,  or  in  the 
author's  vivid  sketches  of  his  own  period,  the  romance 
has  a  charm  which  long  centuries  have  failed  to  dim. 

The  present  rendering  of  The  Story  of  Cupid  and 
Psyche  is  a  faithful  reprint  of  the  translation  by  Walter 
Pater,  as  given  in  the  first  edition  of  his  Marius  the 
Epicurean  (1885). 

AUTHORITIES  I 

A  History  of  Latin  Literature  from  Ennius  to  Boe- 
thius,  by  George  A.  Simcox. 

History  of  Roman  Literature,  by  Wilhelm  Teuffel ; 
revised  and  enlarged  by  Ludwig  Schwabe. 

Henry  Wilson's  annotated  edition  of  John  C.  Dun- 
lop's  History  of  Prose  Fiction. 


^      THE   STORY  OF   CUPID  AND  PSYCHE 

In  a  certain  city  lived  a  king  and  queen  who  had  three 
daughters  exceeding  fair.  But  the  beauty  of  the  two  elder, 
though  pleasant  to  behold,  yet  passed  not  the  measure  of 
human  ptaise,  while  such  was  the  loveliness  of  the  youngest 
that  men's  speech  was  too  poor  to  command  it  worthily  and 
could  express  it  not  at  all.  Many  of  the  citizens  and  of 
strangers,  whom  the  fame  of  this  excellent  vision  had  gath- 
ered thither,  confounded  by  that  matchless  beauty,  could  but 
kiss  the  finger-tips  of  their  right  hands  at  sight  of  her,  as  in 
adoration  to  tlie  goddess  Venus  herself.  And  soon  a  rumour 
passed  through  the  country  that  she  whom  the  blue  deep  had 
borne,  forbearing  her  divine  dignity,  was  even  then  moving 
among  men,  or  that,  by  some  fresh  germination  from  the 
stars,  not  the  sea  now,  but  the  earth,  had  put  forth  a  new 
Venus,  endued  with  the  flower  of  virginity. 

This  belief,  with  the  fame  of  the  maiden's  loveliness, 
went  daily  farther  into  distant  lands,  so  that  many  people 
were  drawn  together  to  behold  that  glorious  model  of  the 
age.  Men  sailed  no  longer  to  Paphos,  to  Cnidus  or  Cythera, 
to  the  presence  of  the  goddess  Venus;  her  sacred  rites  were 
neglected,  her  images  stood  uncrowned,  the  cold  ashes  were 
left  to  disfigure  her  forsaken  altars.  It  was  to"  a  maiden  that 
men's  prayers  were  offered,  to  a  human  countenance  they 
looked,  in  propitiating  so  great  a  godhead:  when  the  girl 
went  forth  in  the  morning  they  strewed  flowers  on  her  way, 
and  the  victims  proper  to  that  unseen  goddess  were  presented 
as  she  passed  along.  This  conveyance  of  divine  worship  to 
a  mortal  kindled  meantime  the  anger  of  the  true  Venus. 
"Lo !  now  the  ancient  parent  of  nature,"  she  cried,  "the 
fountain  of  all  elements  !  Behold  me,  Venus,  benign  mother 
of  the  world,  sharing  my  honours  with  a  mortal  maiden, 
while  my  name,  built  up  in  heaven,  is  profaned  by  the  mean 
things  of  earth !  Shall  a  perishable  woman  bear  my  image 
about  with  her?    In  vain  did  the  shepherd  of  Ida  prefer  me  I 

59 


6o       THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

Yet  shall  she  have  little  joy,  whosoever  she  be,  of  her 
usurped  and  unlawful  loveliness !"  Thereupon  she  called  to 
her  that  winged,  bold  boy,  of  evil  ways,  who  wanders  armed 
by  night  through  men's  houses,  spoiling  their  marriages ;  and 
stirring  yet  more  by  her  speech  his  inborn  wantonness,  she 
led  him  to  the  city,  and  showed  him  Psyche  as  she  walked. 

"  I  pray  thee,"  she  said,  "  give  thy  mother  a  full  revenge. 
Let  this  maid  become  the  slave  of  an  unworthy  love."  Then, 
embracing  him  closely,  she  departed  to  the  shore  and  took 
her  throne  upon  the  crest  of  the  wave.  And  lo !  at  her  un- 
uttered  will,  her  ocean-servants  are  in  waiting :  the  daughters 
of  Nereus  are  there  singing  their  song,  and  Portunus,  and 
Salacia,  and  the  tiny  charioteer  of  the  dolphin,  with  a  host 
of  Tritons  leaping  through  the  billows.  And  one  blows  softly 
his  sounding  sea-shell,  another  spreads  a  silken  web  against 
the  sun,  a  third  presents  the  mirror  to  the  eyes  of  his  mis- 
tress, while  the  others  swim  side  by  side  below,  drawing  her 
chariot.  Such  was  the  escort  of  Venus  as  she  went  upon 
the  sea. 

Psyche  meantime,  aware  of  her  loveliness,  had  no  fruit 
thereof.  All  people  regarded  and  admired,  but  none  sought 
her  in  marriage.  It  was  but  as  upon  the  finished  work  of  the 
craftsman  that  they  gazed  upon  that  divine  likeness.  Her 
sisters,  less  fair  than  she,  were  happily  wedded.  She,  even 
as  a  widow,  sitting  at  home,  wept  over  her  desolation,  hating 
in  her  heart  the  beauty  in  which  all  men  were  pleased. 

And  the  king,  supposing  that  the  gods  were  angry,  in- 
quired of  the  oracle  of  Apollo,  and  Apollo  answered  him 
thus :  "  Let  the  damsel  be  placed  on  the  top  of  a  certain 
mountain,  adorned  as  for  the  bed  of  marriage  and  of  death. 
Look  not  for  a  son-in-law  of  mortal  birth ;  but  for  that  evil 
serpent-thing,  by  reason  of  whom  even  the  gods  tremble  and 
the  shadows  of  Styx  are  afraid." 

So  the  king  returned  home  and  made  known  the  oracle 
to  his  wife.  For  many  days  she  lamented,  but  at  last  the  ful- 
filment of  the  divine  precept  was  urgent  upon  her,  and  the 
company  was  made  ready  to  conduct  the  maiden  to  her 
deadly  bridal.  And  now  the  nuptial  torch  gathers  dark  smoke 
and  ashes;  the  pleasant  sound  of  the  pipe  changes  into  a  cry; 
the  marriage  hymn  concludes  in  a  sorrowful  wailing.  Below 
her  yellow  wedding-veil  the  bride  shook  away  her  tears ;  in- 


THE  STORY  OF  CUPID  AND  PSYCHE  6l 

SOmuch  that  the  whole  city  was  afflicted  together  at  the  ill- 
luck  of  the  stricken  house. 

But  the  mandate  of  the  god  impelled  the  hapless  Psyche 
to  her  fate,  and,  those  solemnities  being  ended,  the  funeral  of 
the  living  soul  goes  forth,  all  the  people  following.  Psyche, 
bitterly  weeping,  assists  not  at  her  marriage  but  at  her  own 
obsequies,  and  while  the  parents  hesitate  to  accomplish  a 
thing  so  unholy  the  daughter  cries  to  them :  "  Wherefore  tor- 
ment your  luckless  age  by  long  weeping  ?  This  was  the  prize 
of  my  extraordinary  beauty!  When  all  people  celebrated  us 
with  divine  honours,  and  with  one  voice  named  the  New 
Venus,  it  was  then  ye  should  have  wept  for  me  as  one  dead. 
Now  at  last  I  understand  that  that  one  name  of  Venus  has 
been  my  ruin.  Lead  me  and  set  me  upon  the  appointed  place. 
I  am  in  haste  to  submit  to  that  well-omened  marriage,  to  be- 
hold that  goodly  spouse.  Why  delay  the  coming  of  him  who 
was  born  for  the  destruction  of  the  whole  world  ?  " 

She  was  silent,  and  with  firm  step  went  on  the  way. 
And  they  proceeded  to  the  appointed  place  on  a  steep  moun- 
tain, and  left  there  the  maiden  alone,  and  took  their  way 
homeward  dejectedly.  The  wretched  parents,  in  their  close- 
shut  house,  yielded  themselves  to  perpetual  night;  while  to 
Psyche,  fearful  and  trembling  and  weeping  sore  upon  the 
mountain-top,  comes  the  gentle  Zephyrus.  He  lifts  her  gently, 
and,  with  vesture  floating  on  either  side,  bears  her  by  his  own 
soft  breathing  over  the  windings  of  the  hills,  and  sets  her 
lightly  among  the  flowers  in  the  bosom  of  a  valley  below. 

Psyche,  in  those  delicate  grassy  places,  lying  sweetly  on 
her  dewy  bed,  rested  from  the  agitation  of  her  soul  and  arose 
in  peace.  And  lo !  a  grove  of  mighty  trees,  with  a  fount  of 
water,  clear  as  glass,  in  the  midst ;  and  hard  by  the  water,  a 
dwelling-place,  built  not  by  human  hands  but  by  some  divine 
cunning.  One  recognised,  even  at  the  entering,  the  delightful 
hostelry  of  a  god.  Golden  pillars  sustained  the  roof,  arched 
most  curiously  in  cedar-wood  and  ivory.  The  walls  were 
hidden  under  wrought  silver,  all  tame  and  woodland  creatures 
leaping  forward  to  the  visitor's  gaze.  Wonderful  indeed  was 
the  craftsman,  divine  or  half  divine,  who  by  the  subtlety  of 
his  art  had  breathed  so  wild  a  soul  into  the  silver  !  The  very 
pavement  was  distinct  with  pictures  in  goodly  stones.  In  the 
glow  of  its  precious  metal  the  house  is  its  own  daylight,  hav- 


62       THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

jng  no  need  of  the  sun.  Well  might  it  seem  a  place  fashioned 
for  the  conversation  of  gods  with  men  ! 

Psyche,  drawn  forward  by  the  delight  of  it,  came  near, 
and,  her  courage  growing,  stood  within  the  doorway.  One 
by  one,  she  admired  the  beautiful  things  she  saw ;  and,  most 
wonderful  of  all !  no  lock,  no  chain,  nor  living  guardian  pro- 
tected that  great  treasure-house.  But  as  she  gazed  there 
came  a  voice — a  voice,  as  it  were,  unclothed  of  its  bodily 
vesture.  "  Mistress !  "  it  said,  "  all  these  things  are  thine. 
Lie  down,  and  relieve  thy  weariness,  and  rise  again  for  the 
bath  when  thou  wilt.  We  thy  servants,  whose  voice  thou 
hearest,  will  be  beforehand  with  our  service,  and  a  royal  feast 
shall  be  ready." 

And  Psyche  understood  that  some  divine  care  was  pro- 
viding, and,  refreshed  with  sleep  and  the  bath,  sat  down  to 
the  feast.  Still  she  saw  no  one :  only  she  heard  words  falling 
here  and  there,  and  had  voices  alone  to  serve  her.  And  the 
feast  being  ended,  one  entered  the  chamber  and  sang  to  her 
unseen,  while  another  struck  the  chords  of  a  harp,  invisible 
with  him  who  played  on  it.  Afterwards  the  sound  of  a  com- 
pany singing  together  came  to  her,  but  still  so  that  none  was 
present  to  sight;  yet  it  appeared  that  a  great  multitude  of 
singers  was  there. 

And  the  hour  of  evening  inviting  her,  she  climbed  into 
the  bed ;  and  as  the  night  was  far  advanced,  behold,  a  sound 
of  a  certain  clemency  approaches  her.  Then,  fearing  for  her 
maidenhood,  in  so  great  solitude,  she  trembled,  and  more 
than  any  evil  she  knew  dreaded  that  she  knew  not.  And 
now  the  husband,  that  unknown  husband,  drew  near,  and  as- 
cended the  couch,  and  made  her  his  wife ;  and  lo !  before 
therise  of  dawn  he  had  departed  hastily.  And  the  attendant 
voices  ministered  to  the  needs  of  the  newly  married.  And  so 
it  happened  with  her  for  a  long  season.  And  as  nature  has 
willed,  that  new  thing,  by  continual  use,  became  a  delight  to 
her,  and  the  sound  of  the  voice  grew  to  be  her  solace  in  that 
condition  of  loneliness  and  uncertainty. 

One  night  the  bridegroom  spoke  thus  to  his  beloved :  "  O 
Psyche,  most  pleasant  bride  !  Fortune  has  grown  stern  with 
us,  and  threatens  thee  with  mortal  peril.  Thy  sisters,  trou- 
bled at  the  report  of  thy  death  and  seeking  some  trace  of  thee, 
will  come  to  the  mountain-top.    But  if  by  chance  their  cries 


THE  STORY   OF  CUPID   AND   PSYCHE  6^ 

reach  thee,  answer  not,  neither  look  forth  at  all,  lest  thou 
bring  sorrow  upon  me  and  destruction  upon  thyself."  Then 
Psyche  promised  that  she  would  do  according  to  his  will. 
But  the  bridegroom  had  fled  away  again  with  the  night.  And 
all  that  day  she  spent  in  tears,  repeating  that  she  was  now 
dead  indeed,  shut  up  in  that  golden  prison ;  powerless  to  con- 
sole her  sisters,  sorrowing  after  her,  or  to  see  their  faces : 
and  so  went  to  rest  weeping. 

And  after  a  while  came  the  bridegroom  again,  and  lay 
down  be'side  her,  and  embracing  her  as  she  wept,  complained : 
"  Was  this  thy  promise,  my  Psyche  ?  What  have  I  to  hope 
from  thee?  Even  in  the  arms  of  thy  husband  thou  ceasest 
not  from  pain.  Do  now  as  thou  wilt.  Indulge  thine  own 
desire,  though  it  seeks  what  will  ruin  thee.  Yet  wilt  thou 
remember  my  warning,  repentant  too  late."  Then,  protesting 
that  she  is  like  to  die,  she  obtains  from  him  that  he  suffer 
her  to  see  her  sisters,  and  to  present  to  them  moreover  what 
gifts  she  would  of  golden  ornaments ;  but  therewith  he  oft- 
times  advised  her  never  at  any  time,  yielding  to  pernicious 
counsel,  to  inquire  concerning  his  bodily  form,  lest  she  fall, 
through  unholy  curiosity,  from  so  great  a  height  of  fortune, 
nor  feel  ever  his  embrace  again.  "  I  would  die  a  hundred 
times,"  she  said,  cheerful  at  last,  "  rather  than  be  deprived  of 
thy  most  sweet  usage.  I  love  thee  as  my  own  soul,  beyond 
comparison  even  with  Love  himself.  Only  bid  thy  servant 
Zephyrus  bring  hither  my  sisters,  as  he  brought  me.  My 
honey-comb  !  My  husband  !  Thy  Psyche's  breath  of  life  !  " 
So  he  promised;  and 'after  the  embraces  of  the  night,  ere  the 
light  appeared,  vanished  from  the  hands  of  his  bride. 

And  the  sisters,  coming  to  the  place  where  Psyche  had 
been  abandoned,  wept  loudly  among  the  rocks,  and  called 
upon  her  by  name,  so  that  the  sound  came  down  to  her,  and 
running  out  of  the  palace  distraught,  she  cried :  "  Wherefore 
afflict  your  souls  with  lamentations  ?  I  whom  you  mourn  am 
here."  Then  summoning  Zephyrus,  she  reminded  him  of  her 
husband's  bidding;  and  he  bare  them  down  with  a  gentle 
blast.  "  Enter  now,"  she  said,  "  into  my  house,  and  relieve 
your  sorrow  in  the  company  of  Psyche  your  sister." 

And  Psyche  displayed  to  them  all  the  treasures  of  the 
golden  house,  and  its  great  family  of  ministering  voices, 
nursing  in  them  the  malice  which  was  already  at  their  hearts. 


64       THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

And  at  last  one  of  them  asks  curiously  who  the  lord  of  that 
celestial  array  may  be,  and  what  manner  of  man  her  hus- 
band ?  And  Psyche  answered  dissemblingly :  "  A  young  man, 
handsome  and  mannerly,  with  a  goodly  beard.  For  the  most 
part  he  hunts  upon  the  mountains."  And  lest  the  secret 
should  slip  from  her  in  the  way  of  further  speech,  loading  her 
sisters  with  gold  and  gems,  she  summoned  Zephyrus  to  bear 
them  away. 

And  they  returned  home,  on  fire  with  envy.  "  See  now 
the  injustice  of  fortune !  "  cried  one.  "  We,  the  elder  chil- 
dren, have  been  given  like  servants  to  be  the  wives  of  stran- 
gers, while  the  youngest  is  possessed  of  so  great  riches,  who 
scarcely  knows  how  to  use  them.  You  saw,  sister !  what  a 
hoard  of  wealth  is  lying  in  the  house;  what  glittering  gowns; 
what  splendour  of  precious  gems,  besides  all  that  gold  trodden 
under  foot.  If  she  indeed  hath,  as  she  said,  a  bridegroom 
so  goodly,  then  no  one  in  all  the  world  is  happier.  And  it 
may  be  that  that  husband,  being  of  divine  nature,  will  make 
her  too  a  goddess.  Nay !  so  in  truth  it  is.  It  was  even  thus 
she  bore  herself.  Already  she  looks  aloft  and  breathes 
divinity;  who,  but  a  woman,  has  pure  voices  for  her  hand- 
maidens, and  can  command  the  winds."  "  Think,"  answered 
the  other,  "  how  arrogantly  she  dealt  with  us,  grudging  us 
these  trifling  gifts  out  of  all  that  store,  and  when  she  found 
our  company  a  burden,  causing  us  to  be  hissed  and  driven 
away  from  her  through  the  air !  But  I  am  no  woman  if  she 
keep  her  hold  on  this  great  fortune:  and  if  the  insult  done  us 
has  touched  thee  too,  take  we  counsel  together.  Meanwhile 
let  us  hold  our  peace,  and  know  nought  of  her,  aHve  or  dead. 
For  they  are  not  truly  happy  of  whose  happiness  other  folk 
are  unaware." 

And  the  bridegroom,  whom  still  she  knows  not,  warns 
her  thus  a  second  time,  as  he  talks  with  her  by  night :  "  Seest 
thou  what  peril  besets  thee?  Those  cunning  wolves  have 
made  ready  for  thee  their  snares,  of  which  the  sum  is  that 
they  persuade  thee  to  search  into  the  fashion  of  my  coun- 
tenance, the  seeing  of  which,  as  I  have  told  thee  often,  will 
be  the  seeing  of  it  no  more  forever.  But  do  thou  neither 
listen  nor  make  answer  to  aught  regarding  thy  husband. 
Besides,  we  have  sown  also  the  seed  of  our  race.  Even  now 
this  bosom  grows  with  a  child  to  be  born  to  us,  a  child,  if  thou 


THE  STORY  OF  CUPID  AND  PSYCHE      6^ 

but  keep  our  secret,  of  divine  quality;  if  thou  profane  it, 
subject  to  death."  And  Psyche  was  glad  at  the  tidings,  re- 
joicing in  that  solace  of  a  divine  seed,  and  in  the  glory  of  that 
pledge  of  love  to  be,  and  the  dignity  of  the  name  of  mother. 
Anxiously  she  noted  the  increase  of  the  days,  the  waning 
months.  And  again,  as  he  tarries  briefly  beside  her,  the 
bridegroom  repeats  his  warning:  "Even  now  the  sword  is 
drawn  with  which  thy  sisters  seek  thy  life.  Have  pity  on 
thyself,  sweet  wife,  and  upon  our  child,  and  see  not  those 
evil  woipen  again."  But  the  sisters  made  their  way  once  more 
into  the  palace  and  cried  to  her  in  wily  tones:  "O  Psyche! 
and  thou  too  wilt  be  a  mother !  How  great  will  be  the  joy 
at  home !  Happy  indeed  shall  we  be  to  have  the  nursing  of 
the  golden  child.  Truly  if  he  does  but  answer  duly  to  the 
beauty  of  his  parents,  it  will  be  a  birth  of  Cupid  himself." 

So,  little  by  little,  they  stole  upon  the  soul  of  their  sister. 
She,  meanwhile,  bids  the  lyre  to  sound  for  their  delight  and 
the  playing  is  heard.  She  bids  the  pipes  to  move  and  the 
quire  to  sing,  and  the  music  and  the  singing  come  invisibly, 
soothing  the  mind  of  the  listener  with  sweetest  modulation. 
But  not  even  thereby  was  their  malice  put  to  sleep :  once  more 
they  seek  to  know  what  manner  of  husband  she  has,  and 
whence  that  seed.  And  Psyche,  simple  overmuch,  forget- 
ting her  first  story,  answers :  "  My  husband  comes  from  a  far 
country,  trading  for  great  sums.  He  is  already  of  middle 
age,  with  whitening  locks."  And  therewith  she  dismisses 
them  again. 

And  returning  home  upon  the  soft  breath  of  Zephyrus  one 
cried  to  the  other:  "  What  shall  be  said  of  so  ugly  a  lie?  He 
who  was  a  young  man  with  florid  beard  is  now  in  middle  life. 
It  must  be  that  she  told  a  false  tale :  else  is  she  indeed  igno- 
rant what  manner  of  man  that  is.  Howsoever  it  be,  let  us 
destroy  her  quickly.  For  if  she  indeed  knows  not,  be  sure 
that  her  bridegroom  is  one  of  the  gods ;  it  is  a  god  she  bears 
in  her  womb.  And  let  that  be  far  from  us  !  If  she  be  called 
mother  of  a  god,  then  will  my  life  be  more  than  I  can  bear." 

So,  full  of  rage  against  her,  they  returned  to  Psyche,  and 
said  to  her  craftily :  "  Thou  livest  in  an  ignorant  bliss,  all 
incurious  of  thy  real  danger.  It  is  a  deadly  serpent,  as  we 
certainly  know,  that  comes  to  sleep  by  thy  side.  Remember 
the  words  of  the  oracle,  which  declared  thee  destined  to  a 


66  THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

cruel  beast.  There  are  those  who  have  seen  it  at  nightfall, 
coming  back  from  its  feeding.  It  will  not  be  much  longer, 
they  say,  ere  it  will  end  its  blandishments.  It  but  waits  for 
the  babe  to  be  formed  in  thee,  that  it  may  devour  thee  by  so 
much  the  richer.  If  indeed  the  solitude  of  this  musical  place, 
or  it  may  be  the  loathsome  commerce  of  this  hidden  love, 
delight  thee,  we  at  least  with  sisterly  piety  have  done  our 
part."  And  at  last  the  unhappy  Psyche,  so  simple  and  frail  of 
soul,  was  carried  away  by  the  terror  of  their  words,  and 
losing  memory  of  her  husband's  precepts  and  her  own  prom- 
ise, brought  upon  herself  a  great  calamity.  Trembling  and 
turning  pale,  she  answers  them :  "  And  they  who  tell  those 
things,  it  may  be,  speak  the  truth.  For  in  very  deed  never 
have  I  seen  the  face  of  my  husband,  nor  know  I  at  all  what 
manner  of  man  he  is.  Always  he  frights  me  diligently  from 
the  sight  of  him,  threatening  some  great  evil  should  I  too 
curiously  look  upon  his  face.  Do  ye,  if  ye  can  help  your 
sister  in  her  great  peril,  stand  by  her  now." 

Her  sisters  answered  her :  "  The  way  of  safety  we  have 
well  considered,  and  will  teach  thee.  Take  a  sharp  knife, 
and  hide  it  in  that  part  of  the  couch  where  thou  art  wont  to 
lie;  take  also  a  lamp  filled  with  oil,  and  set  it  privily  behind 
the  curtain.  And  when  he  shall  have  drawn  up  his  coils  into 
the  accustomed  place,  and  thou  hearest  him  breathe  in  sleep, 
slip  then  from  his  side  and  discover  the  lamp,  and,  knife  in 
hand,  put  forth  all  thy  strength,  and  strike  off  the  serpent's 
head."    And  so  they  departed  in  haste. 

And  Psyche  left  alone  (alone  but  for  the  furies  which 
beset  her)  is  tossed  up  and  down  in  her  distress,  like  a  wave 
of  the  sea ;  and  though  her  will  is  firm,  yet,  in  the  moment  of 
putting  hand  to  the  deed,  she  falters,  and  is  torn  asunder  by 
various  apprehension  of  that  great  calamity  upon  her.  She 
hastens  and  anon  delays ;  is  now  full  of  distrust,  and  now  of 
angry  courage:  under  one  bodily  form  she  loathes  the  mon- 
ster, and  loves  the  bridegroom.  But  evening  ushers  in  the 
night ;  and  at  last  in  haste  she  makes  ready  for  the  terrible 
deed.  Darkness  came,  and  the  bridegroom ;  and  he  first,  after 
some  faint  essay  of  love,  fell  into  a  deep  sleep. 

And  she,  erewhile  of  no  strength,  the  hard  purpose  of  des- 
tiny assisting  her,  is  confirmed  in  force.  With  lamp  plucked 
forth,  and  the  knife  in  her  hand,  she  put  by  her  sex;  and  lol 


THE  STORY  OF  CUPID  AND  PSYCHE  6) 

as  the  secrets  of  the  bed  became  manifest,  the  sweetest  and 
most  gentle  of  all  creatures,  Cupid  himself,  reclined  there,  in 
his  own  proper  loveliness  !  At  the  sight  of  him  the  very 
flame  of  the  lamp  kindled  more  gladly !  But  Psyche  was 
afraid  at  the  vision,  and,  faint  of  soul,  trembled  backward 
upon  her  knees,  and  would  have  hidden  away  the  steel  in  her 
own  bosom.  But  the  knife  slipped  from  her  hand :  and  now, 
undone,  yet  ofttimes  looking  upon  the  beauty  of  that  divine 
countenance,  she  lives  again.  She  sees  the  locks  of  that 
golden  head,  pleasant  with  the  unction  of  the  gods,  shed 
down  in  graceful  entanglement  behind  and  before,  about  the 
ruddy  cheeks  and  white  throat.  The  pinions  of  the  winged 
god,  yet  fresh  with  the  dew,  are  spotless  upon  his  shoulders, 
the  delicate  plumage  wavering  over  them  as  they  lie  at  rest. 
Smooth  he  was,  and,  touched  with  light,  worthy  of  Venus 
his  mother.  At  the  foot  of  the  couch  lay  his  bow  and  arrows, 
the  instruments  of  his  power,  propitious  to  men. 

And  Psyche,  gazing  hungrily  upon  all  that,  drew  an  arrow 
from  the  quiver,  and  trying  its  point  upon  her  thumb,  tremu- 
lous still,  drave  in  the  barb,  so  that  a  drop  of  blood  came  forth. 
Thus  fell  she,  by  her  own  act,  and  unaware,  into  the  love  of 
Love.  Falling  upon  the  bridegroom,  with  indrawn  breath  and 
a  hurry  of  kisses  from  her  eager  and  open  lips,  she  shuddered 
as  she  thought  how  brief  that  sleep  might  be.  And  it  chanced 
that  a  drop  of  burning  oil  fell  from  the  lamp  upon  the  god's 
shoulder.  Ah  !  maladroit  minister  of  love,  thus  to  wound  him 
from  whom  all  fire  comes;  though  't  was  a  lover,  I  trow, 
first  devised  thee,  to  have  the  fruit  of  his  desire  even  in  the 
darkness !  At  the  touch  of  the  fire  the  god  started  up,  and 
beholding  the  overflow  of  her  faith,  quietly  took  flight  from 
her  embraces. 

And  Psyche,  as  he  rose  upon  the  wing,  laid  hold  on  him 
with  her  two  hands,  and  hung  upon  him  in  his  passage 
through  the  air,  till  she  sank  to  the  earth  through  weariness. 
And  as  she  lay  there,  the  divine  lover,  tarrying  still,  lighted 
upon  a  cypress-tree  which  grew  near,  and,  from  the  top  of 
it,  spake  thus  to  her,  in  great  emotion :  "  Foolish  one !  un- 
mindful of  the  command  of  Venus,  my  mother,  who  had  de- 
voted thee  to  the  bed  of  one  of  base  degree,  I  fled  to  thee  in 
his  stead.  Now  know  I  that  that  was  vainly  done.  Into 
mine  own  fiesh  pierced  mine  arrow,  and  I  made  thee  my 


6S  THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

wife,  only  that  I  might  seem  a  monster  beside  thee — that 
thou  shouldst  seek  to  wound  the  head  wherein  lay  the  eyes 
so  full  of  love  to  thee !  Again  and  again,  I  thought  to  put 
thee  on  thy  guard  concerning  these  things,  and  warned  thee 
in  loving  kindness.  Now  I  would  but  punish  thee  by  my 
flight  hence."  And  therewith  he  winged  his  way  into  the 
deep  sky. 

Psyche,  prostrate  upon  the  earth,  and  following  far  as 
sight  might  reach  the  flight  of  the  bridegroom,  wept  and 
lamented;  and  when  the  breadth  of  space  had  parted  him 
wholly  from  her,  cast  herself  down  from  the  bank  of  a  river 
which  was  near.  But  the  stream,  turning  gentle  in  honour 
of  the  god,  put  her  forth  again  unhurt  upon  its  margin.  And 
as  it  happened,  Pan,  the  rustic  god,  was  sitting  just  then 
by  the  waterside,  embracing,  in  the  body  of  a  reed,  the  god- 
dess Canna;  teaching  her  to  respond  to  him  in  all  varieties 
of  slender  sound.  Hard  by,  his  flock  of  goats  browsed  at  will. 
And  the  shaggy  god  called  her,  wounded  and  outworn,  kindly 
to  him  and  said :  "  I  am  but  a  rustic  herdsman,  pretty  maiden, 
yet  wise,  by  favour  of  my  great  age  and  long  experience; 
and,  if  I  guess  truly  by  those  faltering  steps,  by  thy  sorrow- 
ful eyes  and  continual  sighing,  thou  labourest  with  excess  of 
love.  Listen  then  to  me,  and  seek  not  death  again,  in  the 
stream  or  otherwise.  Put  aside  thy  woe  and  turn  thy  prayers 
to  Cupid.  He  is  in  truth  a  deHcate  youth :  win  him  by  the 
delicacy  of  thy  service." 

So  the  shepherd-god  spoke,  and  Psyche,  answering  noth- 
ing, but  with  a  reverence  to  his  serviceable  deity,  went  on  her 
way.  And  while  she,  in  her  search  after  Cupid,  wandere'd 
through  many  lands,  he  was  lying  in  the  chamber  of  his 
mother,  heart-sick.  And  the  white  bird  which  floats  over  the 
waves  plunged  in  haste  into  the  sea,  and  approaching  Venus 
as  she  bathed,  made  known  to  her  that  her  son  lies  afflicted 
with  some  grievous  hurt,  doubtful  of  life.  And  Venus  cried, 
angrily :  "  My  son,  then,  has  a  mistress !  And  it  is  Psyche, 
who  witched  away  my  beauty  and  was  the  rival  of  my  god- 
head, whom  he  loves  !  " 

Therewith  she  issued  from  the  sea,  and  returning  to  her 
golden  chamber,  found  there  the  lad,  sick,  as  she  had  heard, 
and  cried  from  the  doorway :  "  Well  done,  truly !  to  trample 
thy  mother's  precepts  under  foot,  to  spare  my  enemy  that 


THE  STORY  OF  CUPID  AND  PSYCHE  69 

cross  of  an  unworthy  love ;  nay,  unite  her  to  thyself,  child  as 
thou  art,  that  I  might  have  a  daughter-in-law  who  hates  me ! 
I  will  make  thee  repent  of  thy  sport,  and  the  savour  of  thy 
marriage  bitter.  There  is  one  who  shall  chasten  that  body  of 
thine,  put  out  thy  torch  and  unstring  thy  bow.  Not  till  she 
has  plucked  forth  that  hair,  into  which  so  oft  these  hands 
have  smoothed  the  golden  Hght,  and  sheared  away  thy  wings, 
shall  I  feel  the  injury  done  me  avenged."  And  with  that  she 
hastened  in  anger  from  the  doors. 

And  Ceres  and  Juno  met  her,  and  sought  to  know  the 
meaning  of  her  troubled  countenance.  "  Ye  come  in  season," 
she  cried;  "I  pray  you,  find  for  me  Psyche.  It  must  needs 
be  that  ye  have  heard  the  disgrace  of  my  house."  And  they, 
ignorant  of  what  was  done,  would  have  soothed  her  anger, 
saying :  "  What  fault.  Mistress  !  hath  thy  son  committed,  that 
thou  wouldst  destroy  the  girl  he  loves?  Knowest  thou  not 
that  he  is  now  of  age?  Because  he  wears  his  years  so  lightly 
must  he  seem  to  thee  ever  but  a  child?  Wilt  thou  forever 
thus  pry  into  the  pastimes  of  thy  son,  always  accusing  his 
wantonness,  and  blaming  in  him  those  delicate  wiles  which 
are  all  thine  own  ?  "  Thus,  in  secret  fear  of  the  boy's  bow, 
did  they  seek  to  please  him  with  their  gracious  patronage. 
But  Venus,  angry  at  their  light  taking  of  her  wrongs,  turned 
her  back  upon  them;  and  with  hasty  steps  took  her  way 
once  more  to  the  sea. 

And  in  the  meanwhile,  Psyche,  tossed  in  soul,  wandering 
hither  and  thither,  rested  not  night  nor  day,  in  the  pursuit  of 
her  husband,  desiring,  if  she  might  not  soothe  his  anger  by  the 
endearments  of  a  wife,  at  the  least  to  propitiate  him  with  the 
prayers  of  a  handmaid.  And  seeing  a  certain  temple  on  the 
top  of  a  high  mountain,  she  said :  "  Who  knows  whether 
yonder  place  be  not  the  abode  of  my  lord?"  Thither,  there- 
fore, she  turned  her  steps;  hastening  now  the  more  because 
desire  and  hope  pressed  her  on,  weary  as  she  was  with  the 
labours  of  the  way ;  and  so,  painfully  measuring  out  the  high- 
est ridges  of  the  mountain,  she  drew  near  to  the  sacred 
couches.  She  sees  ears  of  wheat,  in  heaps  or  twisted  into 
chaplets;  ears  of  barley  also;  and  there  were  sickles  and  all 
the  instruments  of  harvest,  lying  there  in  disorder,  thrown 
at  random  from  the  hands  of  the  labourers  in  the  great  heat. 
These  she  curiously  sets  apart,  one  by  one,  duly  ordering 


70       THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

them ;  for  she  said  within  herself :  "  I  may  not  neglect  the 
shrines,  nor  the  holy  service,  of  any  god  there  be,  but  must 
rather  win  by  supplication  the  kindly  mercy  of  them  all." 

And  Ceres  found  her  as  she  bent  sadly  on  her  task,  and 
cried  aloud :  "  Alas,  Psyche !  Venus,  in  the  furiousness  of  her 
anger,  tracks  thy  footsteps  through  the  world,  seeking  for 
thee  to  pay  her  the  utmost  penalty ;  and  thou,  thinking  of  any- 
thing rather  than  thine  own  safety,  hast  taken  on  thee  the 
care  of  what  belongs  to  me !  "  Then  Psyche  fell  down  at 
her  feet,  and  sweeping  the  floor  with  her  hair,  and  washing 
the  footsteps  of  the  goddess  with  her  tears,  besought  her 
mercy,  with  many  prayers :  "  By  the  gladdening  rites  of  har- 
vest, by  the  lighted  lamps  and  mystic  marches  of  the  Mar- 
riage and  mysterious  Invention  of  thy  daughter  Proserpine, 
and  by  all  beside  that  the  holy  place  of  Attica  veils  in  silence, 
minister,  I  pray  thee,  to  the  sorrowful  heart  of  Psyche  !  Suf- 
fer me  to  hide  myself  but  for  a  few  days  among  the  heaps  of 
corn,  till  time  has  softened  the  anger  of  the  goddess,  and 
my  strength,  outworn  in  my  long  travail,  be  recovered  by  a 
little  rest." 

But  Ceres  answered  her :  *'  Truly  thy  tears  move  me,  and 
I  would  fain  help  thee;  only  I  dare  not  incur  the  ill-will  of 
my  kinswoman.  Depart  hence  as  quickly  as  may  be."  And 
Psyche,  repelled  against  hope,  and  afflicted  now  with  two- fold 
sorrow,  making  her  way  back  again,  beheld  among  the  half- 
lighted  woods  of  the  valley  below  a  sanctuary  builded  with 
cunning  art.  And  that  she  might  lose  no  way  of  hope,  howso- 
ever doubtful,  she  drew  near  to  the  sacred  doors.  She  sees 
there  gifts  of  price  and  garments  fixed  upon  the  doorposts 
and  to  the  branches  of  the  trees,  wrought  with  letters  of  gold 
which  told  the  name  of  the  goddess  to  whom  they  were  dedi- 
cated, with  thanksgiving  for  that  she  had  done.  So,  with 
bent  knee  and  hands  laid  about  the  glowing  altar,  she  prayed, 
saying :  "  Sister  and  spouse  of  Jupiter !  be  thou  to  these  my 
desperate  fortunes,  Juno  the  Auspicious !  I  know  that  thou 
dost  willingly  help  those  in  travail  with  child ;  deliver  me 
from  the  peril  that  is  upon  me."  And  as  she  prayed  thus, 
June  in  the  majesty  of  her  godhead  was  straightway  present, 
and  answered :  "  Would  that  I  might  incline  favourably  to 
thee ;  but  against  the  will  of  Venus,  whom  I  have  ever  loved 
as  a  daughter,  I  may  not,  for  very  shame,  grant  thy  prayer." 


THE  STORY  OF  CUPID  AND  PSYCHE  7^ 

And  Psyche,  dismayed  by  this  new  shipwreck  of  her  hope, 
communed  thus  with  herself,  "  Whither,  from  the  midst  of  the 
snares  that  beset  me,  shall  I  take  my  way  once  more?  In 
what  dark  solitude  shall  I  hide  me  from  the  all-seeing  eye  of 
Venus?  What  if  I  put  on  at  length  a  man's  courage,  and 
yielding  myself  unto  her  as  my  mistress,  soften  by  a  humility 
not  yet  too  late  the  fierceness  of  her  purpose?  Who  knows 
but  that  I  may  find  him  also  whom  my  soul  seeketh  after, 
in  the  abode  of  his  mother  ?  " 

And  Venus,  renouncing  all  earthly  aid  in  her  search,  pre- 
pared to  return  to  heaven.  She  ordered  the  chariot  to  be  made 
ready,  which  Vulcan  had  wrought  for  her  as  a  marriage-gift, 
with  a  cunning  of  hand  which  left  his  work  so  much  the 
richer  by  the  weight  of  gold  it  had  lost  under  his  tool.  From 
the  multitude  which  housed  about  the  bedchamber  of  their 
mistress,  white  doves  came  forth,  and  with  joyful  motions 
bent  their  painted  necks  beneath  the  yoke.  Behind  it,  with 
playful  riot,  the  sparrows  sped  onward,  with  other  birds 
sweet  of  song,  making  known  by  their  soft  notes  the  ap- 
proach of  the  goddess.  Eagle  and  cruel  hawk  alarmed  not  the 
quireful  family  of  Venus.  And  the  clouds  broke  away,  as 
the  uttermost  ether  opened  to  receive  her,  daughter  and  god- 
dess, with  great  joy. 

And  Venus  passed  straightway  to  the  house  of  Jupiter 
to  beg  of  him  the  use  of  Mercury,  the  god  of  speech.  And 
Jupiter  refused  not  her  prayer.  And  Venus  and  Mercury  de- 
scended from  heaven  together;  and  as  they  went,  the  former 
said  to  the  latter,  "  Thou  knowest,  my  brother  of  Arcady, 
that  never  at  any  time  have  I  done  anything  without  thy 
help;  for  how  long  time,  moreover,  I  have  sought  a  certain 
maiden  in  vain.  And  now  nought  remains  but  that,  by  thy 
heraldry,  I  proclaim  a  reward  for  whomsoever  shall  find  her. 
Do  thou  my  bidding  quickly."  And  with  that  she  conveyed 
to  him  a  little  scrip,  in  the  which  was  written  the  name  of 
Psyche,  with  other  things;  and  so  returned  home. 

And  Mercury  failed  not  in  his  office;  but  departing  into 
all  lands,  proclaimed  that  whosoever  should  deliver  up  to 
Venus  the  fugitive  girl,  should  receive  from  herself  seven 
kisses — one  thereof  full  of  the  inmost  honey  of  her  throat. 
With  that  the  doubt  of  Psyche  was  ended.  And  now,  as  she 
came  near  to  the  doors  of  Venus,  one  of  the  household,  whose 


12  THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

name  was  Use-and-Wont,  ran  out  to  her,  crying :  "  Hast  thou 
learned,  Wicked  Maid !  now  at  last !  that  thou  hast  a  mis- 
tress?" and  seizing  her  roughly  by  the  hair,  drew  her  into 
the  presence  of  Venus.  And  when  Venus  saw  her,  she  cried 
out,  saying :  "  Thou  hast  deigned  then  to  make  thy  saluta- 
tions to  thy  mother-in-law.  Now  will  I  in  turn  treat  thee  as 
becometh  a  dutiful  daughter-in-law ! " 

And  she  took  barley  and  millet  and  poppy  seed,  every 
kind  of  grain  and  seed,  and  mixed  them  together,  and  laughed, 
and  said  to  her :  "  Methinks  so  plain  a  maiden  can  earn  lovers 
only  by  industrious  ministry:  now  will  I  also  make  trial  of 
thy  service.  Sort  me  this  heap  of  seed,  the  one  kind  from 
the  others,  grain  by  grain ;  and  get  thy  task  done  before  the 
evening."  And  Psyche,  stunned  by  the  cruelty  of  her  bid- 
ding, was  silent,  and  moved  not  her  hand  to  the  inextricable 
heap.  And  there  came  forth  a  little  ant,  which  had  under- 
standing of  the  difficulty  of  her  task,  and  took  pity  upon  the 
consort  of  the  god  of  Love:  and  he  ran  deftly  hither  and 
thither,  and  called  together  the  whole  army  of  his  fellows. 
"  Have  pity,"  he  cried,  "  nimble  scholars  of  the  Earth, 
Mother  of  all  things !  have  pity  upon  the  wife  of  Love,  and 
hasten  to  help  her  in  her  perilous  effort."  Then,  one  upon 
the  other,  the  hosts  of  the  insect  people  hurried  together ;  and 
they  sorted  asunder  the  whole  heap  of  seed,  separating  every 
grain  after  its  kind,  and  so  departed  quickly  out  of  sight. 

And  at  nightfall  Venus  returned,  and  seeing  that  task  fin- 
ished with  so  wonderful  diligence,  she  cried :  "  The  work  is 
not  thine,  thou  naughty  maid,  but  his  in  whose  eyes  thou  hast 
found  favour."  And  calling  her  again  in  the  morning,  "  See 
now  the  grove,"  she  said,  "  beyond  yonder  torrent.  Certain 
sheep  feed  there,  whose  fleeces  shine  with  gold.  Fetch  me 
straightway  a  lock  of  that  precious  stuff,  having  gotten  it  as 
thou  mayst." 

And  Psyche  went  forth  willingly,  not  to  obey  the  com- 
mand of  Venus,  but  even  to  seek  a  rest  from  her  labour  in  the 
depths  of  the  river.  But  out  of  the  river,  the  green  reed, 
lowly  mother  of  music,  spake  to  her :  "  O  Psyche,  pollute 
not  these  waters  by  thy  destruction,  and  approach  not  that 
terrible  flock;  for,  as  the  heat  groweth,  they  wax  fierce:  lie 
down  under  yon  plane-tree,  till  the  quiet  of  the  river's  breath 
have  soothed  them.    Thereafter  thou  mayst  shake  down  the 


THE  STORY  OF  CUPID   AND  PSYCHE  73 

fleecy  gold  from  the  trees  of  the  grove,  for  it  holdeth  by  the 
leaves." 

And  Psyche,  instructed  thus  by  the  simple  reed,  in  the 
humanity  of  its  heart,  filled  her  bosom  with  the  soft  golden 
stuff,  and  returned  to  Venus.  But  the  goddess  smiled  bit- 
terly, and  said  to  her :  "  Well  know  I  who  was  the  author  of 
this  thing  also.  I  will  make  further  trial  of  thy  discretion, 
and  the  boldness  of  thy  heart.  Seest  thou  the  utmost  peak  of 
yonder  steep  mountain  ?  The  dark  stream  which  flows  down 
thence  paters  the  Stygian  fields,  and  swells  the  stream  of 
Cocytus.  Bring  me  now,  in  this  little  urn,  a  draft  from  its 
innermost  source."  And  therewith  she  put  into  her  hands  a 
vessel  of  wrought  crystal. 

And  Psyche  set  forth  in  haste  on  her  way  to  the  moun- 
tain, looking  there  at  last  to  find  the  end  of  her  hapless  life. 
But  when  she  came  to  the  region  which  borders  on  the  cliff 
pointed  out  to  her,  she  understood  the  deadly  nature  of  her 
task.  From  a  great  rock,  steep  and  slippery,  a  horrible  river 
of  water  poured  forth,  falling  straightway  down  a  channel 
exceeding  narrow  into  the  unseen  gulf  below.  And  lo  !  creep- 
ing from  the  rocks  on  either  hand,  angry  serpents,  with  their 
long  necks  and  sleepless  eyes.  The  very  waters  found  a  voice 
and  bade  her  depart,  in  smothered  cries  of:  Depart  hence! 
and  What  doest  thou  here?  Look  around  thee!  and  Destruc- 
tion is  upon  thee !  And  then  sense  left  her,  in  the  immensity 
of  her  peril,  as  one  changed  to  stone. 

But  not  even  then  did  the  distress  of  that  innocent  soul 
escape  the  steady  eyes  of  a  gentle  providence.  For  the  bird 
of  Jupiter  spread  his  wings  and  took  flight  to  her,  and  asked 
her :  "  Didst  thou  think,  simple  one,  even  thou !  that  thou 
couldst  steal  one  drop  of  that  relentless  stream,  the  most  holy 
river  of  Styx,  terrible  even  to  the  gods  ?  But  give  me  thine 
urn."  And  the  bird  took  the  urn,  and  filled  it  at  the  source, 
and  returned  to  her  quickly  from  among  the  teeth  of  the 
serpents,  bringing  with  him  of  the  waters,  all  unwilling — 
nay !  warning  him  to  depart  away  and  not  molest  them. 

And  she,  receiving  the  urn  with  great  joy,  ran  back 
quickly  that  she  might  deliver  it  to  Venus,  and  yet  again 
satisfied  not  the  angry  goddess.  "  My  child  !  "  she  said,  "  in 
this  one  thing  further  must  thou  serve  me.  Take  now  this 
tiny  casket,  and  get  thee  down  even  unto  hell,  and  deliver  it 
6 


74       THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

to  Proserpine.  Tell  her  that  Venus  would  have  of  her  beauty, 
so  much  at  least  as  may  suffice  for  but  one  day's  use;  that 
beauty  she  possessed  erewhile  being  foreworn  and  spoiled, 
through  her  tendance  upon  the  sick-bed  of  her  son;  and  be 
not  slow  in  returning." 

And  Psyche  perceived  there  the  last  ebbing  of  her  for- 
tune— that  she  was  now  thrust  openly  upon  death,  who  must 
go  down,  of  her  own  motion,  to  Hades  and  the  Shades.  And 
straightway  she  climbed  to  the  top  of  an  exceeding  high 
tower,  thinking  within  herself :  "  I  will  cast  myself  down 
thence;  so  shall  I  descend  most  quickly  into  the  kingdom  of 
the  dead."  And  the  tower,  again,  broke  forth  into  speech : 
"  Wretched  Maid  !  Wretched  Maid  !  Wilt  thou  destroy  thy- 
self ?  If  the  breath  quit  thy  body,  then  wilt  thou  indeed  go 
down  into  Hades,  but  by  no  means  return  hither.  Listen  to 
me.  Among  the  pathless  wilds  not  far  from  this  place  lies 
a  certain  mountain,  and  therein  one  of  hell's  vent-holes. 
Through  the  yawning  breach  a  rough  way  lies  open,  follow- 
ing which  thou  wilt  come,  by  direct  course,  to  the  castle  of 
Orcus.  And  thou  must  not  go  empty-handed.  Take  in  each 
hand  a  morsel  of  barley-bread,  soaked  in  hydromel;  and  in 
thy  mouth  two  pieces  of  money.  And  when  thou  shalt  be  now 
well  onward  in  the  way  of  death,  thou  wilt  overtake  a  lame 
ass  laden  with  wood,  and  a  lame  driver,  who  will  beg  thee 
to  reach  him  certain  cords  to  fasten  the  burden  which  is 
falling  from  the  ass ;  but  be  thou  cautious  to  pass  on  in  silence. 
And  soon  as  thou  comest  to  the  river  of  the  dead,  Charon,  in 
that  crazy  bark  he  hath,  will  put  thee  over  upon  the  farther 
side.  There  is  greed  even  among  the  dead:  and  thou  shalt 
deliver  to  him,  for  the  ferrying,  one  of  those  two  pieces  of 
money,  in  such  wise  that  he  take  it  with  his  hand  from  be- 
tween thy  lips.  And  as  thou  passest  over  the  stream,  a  dead 
old  man,  rising  on  the  water,  will  put  up  to  thee  his  moulder- 
ing hands,  and  pray  thee  to  draw  him  into  the  ferry-boat. 
But  beware  that  thou  yield  not  to  unlawful  pity. 

"  When  thou  hast  crossed,  and  art  upon  the  causeway, 
certain  aged  women,  spinning,  will  cry  to  thee  to  lend  thy 
hand  to  their  work :  and  beware  again  that  thou  take  no  part 
therein ;  for  this  also  is  the  snare  of  Venus,  whereby  she 
would  cause  thee  to  cast  away  one  at  least  of  those  cakes 
thou  bearest  in  thy  hands.    And  think  not  that  a  slight  mat- 


THE  STORY  OF  CUPID  AND  PSYCHE  75 

ter;  for  the  loss  of  either  one  of  them  will  be  to  thee  the 
losing  of  the  light  of  day.  For  a  watch-dog  exceeding  fierce 
lies  ever  before  the  threshold  of  that  lonely  house  of  Proser- 
pine. Close  his  mouth  with  one  of  thy  cakes;  so  shalt  thou 
pass  by  him,  and  enter  straightway  into  the  presence  of 
Proserpine  herself.  Then,  do  thou  deliver  thy  message,  and 
taking  what  she  shall  give  thee,  return  back  again ;  offering 
to  the  watch-dog  the  other  cake,  and  to  the  ferryman  that 
other  pi^ce  of  money  thou  boldest  in  thy  mouth.  After  this 
manner  mayst  thou  return  again  beneath  the  stars.  But 
withal,  I  charge  thee,  think  not  to  look  into,  nor  open,  the 
"casket  thou  bearest,  with  that  treasure  of  the  beauty  of  the 
divine  countenance  hidden  therein." 

So  spake  the  stones  of  the  tower ;  and  Psyche  delayed  not, 
but  proceeding  diligently  after  the  manner  enjoined,  entered 
into  the  house  of  Proserpine,  at  whose  feet  she  sat  down 
humbly,  and  would  neither  the  delicate  couch  nor  that  divine 
food  which  the  goddess  offered  her,  but  did  straightway  the 
business  of  Venus.  And  Proserpine  filled  the  casket  secret- 
ly, and  shut  the  lid,  and  delivered  it  to  Psyche,  who  fled  there- 
with from  Hades  with  new  strength.  But  coming  back  into 
the  light  of  day,  even  as  she  hasted  now  to  the  ending  of  her 
service,  she  was  seized  by  a  rash  curiosity.  "  Lo  !  now,"  she 
said  within  herself,  "  my  simpleness !  who  bearing  in  my 
hands  the  divine  loveliness,  heed  not  to  touch  myself  with  a 
particle  at  least  therefrom,  that  I  may  please  the  more  by 
the  fervour  of  it,  my  fair  one,  my  beloved !  "  Even  as  she 
spoke,  she  lifted  the  lid;  and  behold!  within,  neither  beauty, 
nor  anything  beside,  save  sleep  only,  the  sleep  of  the  dead, 
which  took  hold  upon  her,  filling  all  her  members  with  its 
drowsy  vapour,  so  that  she  lay  down  in  the  way  and  moved 
not,  as  in  the  slumber  of  death. 

And  Cupid,  his  wound  being  now  healed,  because  he 
would  endure  no  longer  the  absence  of  her  he  loved,  gliding 
through  the  narrow  window  of  the  chamber  wherein  he  was 
holden,  his  pinions  being  now  repaired  with  a  little  rest,  fled 
forth  swiftly  upon  them;  and  coming  to  the  place  where 
Psyche  was,  shook  that  sleep  away  from  her,  and  set  him  in 
his  prison  again,  awaking  her  with  the  innocent  point  of 
his  arrow.  "  Lo !  now,  thine  old  error  again,"  he  said  to  her, 
"  which  had  like  once  more  to  have  destroyed  thee  !     But  do 


f6  THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

thou  now  what  is  lacking  of  the  command  of  my  mother; 
the  rest  shall  be  my  care."  With  these  words,  the  lover  rose 
upon  the  air;  and  being  consumed  inwardly  with  the  great- 
ness of  his  love,  penetrated  with  vehement  wing  into  the 
highest  place  of  heaven,  to  lay  his  cause  before  the  father  of 
the  gods.  And  the  father  Qi  gods  took  his  hand  in  his,  and 
kissed  his  face,  and  said  to  him :  "  At  no  time,  my  son,  hast 
thou  regarded  me  with  due  honour.  Often  hast  thou  vexed 
my  bosom,  wherein  lies  the  disposition  of  the  stars,  with 
those  busy  darts  of  thine.  Nevertheless,  because  thou  hast 
grown  up  between  these  mine  hands,  I  will  accomplish  thy 
desire."  And  straightway  he  bade  Mercury  to  call  the  gods 
together;  and,  the  council-chamber  being  filled,  sitting  upon 
a  high  throne :  "  Ye  gods,"  he  said,  "  all  ye  whose  names  are 
in  the  white  book  of  the  Muses,  ye  know  yonder  lad.  It 
seems  good  to  me  that  his  youthful  heats  should  by  some 
means  be  restrained.  And  that  all  occasion  may  be  taken 
from  him,  I  would  even  confine  him  in  the  bonds  of  marriage. 
He  has  chosen  and  embraced  a  mortal  maiden.  Let  him 
have  fruit  of  her  love,  and  possess  her  forever." 

And  thereupon  he  bade  Mercury  produce  Psyche  in 
heaven ;  and  holding  out  to  her  his  ambrosial  cup,  "  Take  it," 
he  said,  "  and  live  forever:  nor  shall  Cupid  ever  depart  from 
thee."  And  the  gods  sat  down  together  to  the  marriage-feast.  - 
On  the  first  couch  lay  the  bridegroom,  and  Psyche  in  his 
bosom.  His  rustic  serving-boy  bare  the  wine  to  Jupiter ;  and 
Bacchus  to  the  rest.  The  Seasons  crimsoned  all  things  with 
their  roses.  Apollo  sang  to  the  lyre,  while  a  little  Pan  prat- 
tled on  his  reeds,  and  Venus  danced  very  sweetly  to  the  soft 
music.  Thus,  with  due  rites,  did  Psyche  pass  into  the  power 
of  Cupid ;  and  from  them  was  born  the  daughter  whom  men 
call  Voluptas. 


A    LIST    OF    REPRESENTATIVE    TALES    AND 
SHORT   STORIES 

IV 

MedicBval  Literature  (end  of  classical  period  to 

renaissance)  : 

Sagas : 

Old  English: 

*  The  Story  of  Sigemund,  Beowulf  (about  the  7th  century). 

*  Waldere   (8th  century). 

*  The  Battle  of  Finnsburg  (8th  century). 

*  The  Battle  of  Brunanburh  (loth  century). 

Icelandic : 
Thor's    Adventures,   and   other  tales;   The   Younger   Edda 

(i2th  century). 
The  Tale  of  Hogni  and  Hedinn  (12th  century  or  earlier). 
Gunnlawg  the  Worm-Tongue  (13th  century). 
Frithiof  the  Bold  (14th  century). 
Roi  the  Fool  (about  the  14th  century). 
Viglund  the  Fair  (15th  century). 

Lais  (about  the   i2th  Century)  ; 

*  Le  Cor,  Robert  Biket. 

*  Lanval,  Marie  de  France. 

*  Ywenec,  Marie  de  France. 

*  Le  Fresne,  Marie  de  France. 

*  Eliduc,  Marie  de  France. 

*  Le  Bisclaveret,  Marie  de  France. 

*  Milun,  Marie  de  France. 

*  Le  Chevrefeuille,  Marie  de  France. 

*  Orfeo  and  Heurodis. 

Fabliaux    (from  the  I2th  to  the  beginning  of  the  14TH 
century)  : 

*  Richeut  (about  1156). 
*Estula. 

*  Le  Vair  Palefroi,  Huon  le  Roi. 

*  Barat  et  Hairnet,  Jean  Bedel. 

*  La  Veuve,  Gautier  le  Long. 

*  Chariot  le  Juif,  Rustebeuf. 

*  La  Bourse  Pleine  de  Sens,  Jean  le  Galois  d'Aubepierre. 

*  La  Housse  Partie,  Bernier. 

77 


78  THE   BOOK   OF  THE   SHORT   STORY 

*  Le  Clerc  Cache,  Jean  de  Conde. 
♦Dame  Siriz    (13th  century). 

Beast-Tales: 

*  Ysopet,  Marie  de  France   (12th  century). 

*The  cycle  of  Le   Roman  du  Renart   (12th  century). 

*  Fables,  Robert  Henryson   (15th  century). 

Religious  Collections  and  Contes  Devots: 
Vitse  Fatrum  (Lives  of  the  Fathers)    (5th  century). 
Gregory's   Dialogues    (6th  century). 

*  Miracles  de  Nostre  Dame,  Gautier  de  Coinci  (1236). 
*Le  Tombeur  de  Nostre  Dame  (12th  or  13th  century). 
♦L'Ange  et  I'Ermite  (12th  or  13th  century). 

Legenda  Aurea  (The  Golden  Legend),  Jacobus  a  Voragine 
(13th  century). 

Collections  of  Exampla: 
The  Exempla  of  Jaques  de  Vitry  (12th  century). 
Gesta  Romanorum  (Deeds  of  the  Romans)  (about  the  four- 
teenth century). 

Short  Romances  of  Adventure  in  Prose: 

Aucassin  et  Nicolette    (12th  century). 
Jehan  de  Paris   (15th  century). 

Tale  Collections  drawn  from  Eastern  Sources: 

*  Les  Sept  Sages  (in  French,  in  the  12th  century). 
Disciplina  Clericalis  (Rules  for  the  Clergy),  Petrus  Alphonsi 

(i2th  century). 

*  Barlaam  et  Joasaph   (in  French,  in  the  form  of  a  saint's 

legend,  by  the  13th  century). 
Directorium  Vitae  Humanse  (Guide  for  Human  Life),  John 
of  Capua  (1270), 

Talc  Collections  of  a  Somewhat  More  Original  Character: 

II  Novellino  (about  the  end  of  the  13th  century). 
II  Decamerone,  Giovanni  Boccaccio  (1353). 

*  Confcssio  Amantis,  John   Gower    (1383). 

*  The   Canterbury  Tales,    Geoffrey    Chaucer    (about    1387). 
Cent  Nouvelles  Nouvelles,  Antoine  de  la  Sale  (1462). 


FREDEPICK  OF    THE   ALBERIGHI 
AND   HIS   FALCON 


FREDERICK   OF   THE   ALBERIGHI    AND 
HIS   FALCON 

FREpERICK  OF  THE  AlBERIGHI  AND  HiS  FaLCON  IS  a 

story  from  The  Decameron,  a  famous  collection  of  one' 
hundred  tales  by  Giovanni  Boccaccio  (1313-1375),  pub- 
lished in  1353,  and  written  a  few  years  earlier.  Of  these 
tales,  ten  are  represented  as  told  each  day  for  ten  days,  in 
a  garden  near  Florence,  during  the  plague  of  1348.  Fred- 
erick is  the  ninth  story  of  the  fifth  day.  Preceding  the 
stories  is  a  masterly  description  of  the  plague  at  Flor- 
ence ;  the  tales  themselves  range  from  the  pathetic  to  the 
grossly  licentious. 

Of  Frederick  it  has  been  remarked,  that  "  as  a  picture 
of  the  habitual  workings  of  some  one  powerful  feeling, 
where  the  heart  reposes  almost  entirely  on  itself,  without 
the  violent  excitement  of  opposing  duties  or  untoward 
circumstances,  nothing  ever  came  up  to  the  story  of  Fred- 
erick and  His  Falcon.  The  perseverance  in  attachment, 
the  spirit  of  gallantry  and  generosity  displayed  in  it,  has 
no  parallel  in  the  history  of  heroical  sacrifices.  The  feel- 
ing is  so  unconscious,  too,  and  involuntary,  is  brought 
out  in  such  small,  unlooked-for,  and  unostentatious  cir- 
cumstances, as  to  show  it  to  have  been  woven  into  the 
very  nature  and  soul  of  the  author." 

Of  the  character  of  the  tales  it  may  be  said  that,  while 
some  of  them  are  indelicate  to  modern  taste,  the  best  of 
them,  such  as  Frederick,  Griselda,  The  Stone  of  Invisi- 
bility, The  Pot  of  Basil,  The  Jew  Abraham  Converted 
to  Christianity  by  the  Immorality  of  the  Clergy,  are  sto- 
ries which  belong  to  all  subsequent  times,  as  they  may 
bav^  belonged  to  the  ages  before. 

8j 


82       THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

Many  of  the  English  translations  of  The  Decameron 
are  inaccurate.  The  present  version  of  Frederick  of  the 
Alberighi  and  His  Falcon  is  by  W.  J.  Stillman. 

AUTHORITIES  I 

Giovanni  Boccaccio  as  Man  and  Author,  by  John 
Addington  Symonds. 

Henry  Wilson's  annotated  edition  of  John  C.  Dun- 
lop's  History  of  Prose  Fiction. 

A  History  of  Italian  Literature,  by  Richard  Garnett 
(Literatures  of  the  World  series). 


FREDERICK    OF    THE    ALBERIGHI    AND 
HIS   FALCON 

You  must  know  that  Coppo  di  Borghese  Domenchini — 
who  was  in  our  city,  and  perhaps  still  is,  a  man  of  reverence 
and  of  great  authority  amongst  us,  both  for  his  opinions  and 
for  his  virtues,  and  much  more  for  the  nobility  of  his  family, 
being  distinguished  and  wealthy  and  of  enduring  reputation, 
being  full  of  years  and  experience — was  often  delighted  to 
talk  with  his  neighbours  and  others  of  the  things  of  the  past, 
which  he,  better  than  anybody  else,  could  do  with  excellent 
order  and  with  unclouded  memory.  Amongst  the  pleasant 
stories  which  he  used  to  tell  was  this : 

In  Florence  there  was  a  young  man  called  Frederick,  son 
of  Master  Philip  Alberighi,  who  for  military  ability  and  for 
courteous  manners  was  reputed  above  all  other  gentlemen  of 
Tuscany.  He,  as  often  happens  with  gentlemen,  became 
enamoured  of  a  gentle  lady  called  Madonna  Giovanni,  in  her 
time  considered  the  most  beautiful  and  most  graceful  woman 
in  Florence.  In  order  that  he  might  win  her  love  he  tilted 
and  exercised  in  arms,  made  feasts  and  donations,  and  spent 
all  his  substance  without  restraint.  But  Madonna  Giovanni, 
no  less  honest  than  beautiful,  cared  for  none  of  these  things 
which  he  did  for  her,  nor  for  him.  Frederick  then  spent  more 
than  his  means  admitted,  and  gaining  nothing,  as  easily  hap- 
pens, his  money  disappeared,  and  he  remained  poor  and  with- 
out any  other  property  than  a  poor  little  farm,  by  the  income 
of  which  he  was  barely  able  to  live;  besides  this,  he  had  his 
falcon,  one  of  the  best  in  the  world.  On  this  account,  and 
because  unable  to  remain  in  the  city  as  he  desired,  though 
more  than  ever  devoted,  he  remained  at  Campi,  where  his 
little  farm  was ;  and  there,  as  he  might  hunt,  he  endured  his 
poverty  patiently. 

Now  it  happened  one  day,  when  Frederick  had  come  to 

83 


84      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

extreme  poverty,  that  the  husband  of  Madonna  Giovanni  be- 
came ill,  and,  seeing  death  at  hand,  made  his  will ;  and  being 
very  rich,  in  this  will  left  as  his  heir  his  son,  a  well-grown 
boy ;  and  next  to  him,  as  he  had  greatly  loved  Madonna  Gio- 
vanni, he  made  her  his  heir  if  his  son  should  die  without 
legitimate  heirs,  and  then  died.  Remaining  then  a  widow,  as 
the  custom  is  amongst  our  women.  Madonna  Giovanni  went 
that  summer  with  her  son  into  the  country  on  an  estate  of  hers 
near  to  that  of  Frederick,  so  that  it  happened  that  this  boy, 
beginning  to  become  friendly  with  Frederick  and  to  cultivate 
a  liking  for  books  and  birds,  and  having  seen  many  times  the 
falcon  of  Frederick  fly,  took  an  extreme  pleasure  in  it  and 
desired  very  greatly  to  have  it,  but  did  not  dare  to  ask  it, 
seeing  that  it  was  so  dear  to  Frederick. 

In  this  state  of  things  it  happened  that  the  boy  became  ill, 
and  on  this  account  the  mother,  sorrowing  greatly,  he  being 
that  which  she  loved  most  of  everything  which  she  had, 
tended  him  constantly  and  never  ceased  comforting  him ;  and 
begged  him  that  if  there  was  anything  that  he  wanted,  to  tell 
her,  so  that  she  certainly,  if  it  were  possible  to  get  it,  would 
obtain  it  for  him.  The  young  man,  hearing  many  times  this 
proposal,  said :  "  Mother,  if  you  can  manage  that  I  should 
have  the  falcon  of  Frederick,  I  believe  that  I  should  get  well 
at  once."  The  mother,  hearing  this,  reflected  with  herself 
and  began  to  study  what  she  might  do.  She  knew  that 
Frederick  had  long  loved  her,  and  that  he  had  never  received 
from  her  even  a  look ;  on  this  account  she  said :  "  How  can  I 
send  to  him  or  go  to  him,  to  ask  for  this  falcon,  which  is, 
by  what  I  hear,  the  thing  that  he  most  loves,  and  which  be- 
sides keeps  him  in  the  world;  and  how  can  I  be  so  ungrate- 
ful as  to  take  from  a  gentleman  what  I  desire,  when  it  is 
the  only  thing  that  he  has  to  give  him  pleasure?"  Embar- 
rassed by  such  thoughts,  and  feeling  that  she  was  certain  to 
have  it  if  she  asked  it  of  him,  and  not  knowing  what  to  say, 
she  did  not  reply  to  her  son,  but  was  silent.  Finally,  the 
love  of  her  son  overcoming  her,  she  decided  to  satisfy  him, 
whatever  might  happen,  not  sending  but  going  herself  for  the 
falcon ;  and  she  replied :  "  My  son,  be  comforted  and  try  to 
get  well,  for  I  promise  you  that  the  first  thing  I  do  to-mor- 
row will  be  to  go  and  bring  to  you  the  falcon  " ;  on  which 
account  the  son  in  his  inv  showed  the  same  day  an  improve- 


FREDERICK  OF  THE  ALBERIGHI  85 

ment.  The  lady  the  next  day  took  as  companion  another 
lady,  and  as  if  for  pleasure  went  to  the  house  of  Frederick 
and  asked  for  him.  It  being  early,  he  had  not  been  hawking, 
and  was  in  his  garden  attending  to  certain  Httle  operations; 
and  hearing  that  Madonna  Giovanni  asked  for  him  at  the 
door,  wondering  greatly,  joyfully  went.  She,  seeing  him 
coming,  with  a  ladylike  pleasure  went  to  meet  him,  and  Fred- 
erick having  saluted  her  with  reverence,  she  said :  "  I  hope 
you  are  well,  Frederick,"  and  then  went  on :  "I  have  come 
to  recompense  you  for  the  losses  which  you  have  already 
had  on  vtiy  account,  loving  me  more  than  you  need ;  and  the 
reparation  is,  then,  that  I  intend  with  this  my  companion 
to  dine  with  you  familiarly  to-day."  To  this  Frederick  hum- 
bly replied :  "Madonna,  I  do  not  remember  ever  to  have  suf- 
fered any  loss  on  your  account,  but  so  much  good  that  if  ever 
I  was  worth  anything,  it  is  due  to  your  worth,  and  to  the  love 
which  I  have  borne  you;  and  certainly  your  frank  visit  is 
dearer  to  me  than  would  have  been  the  being  able  to  spend 
as  much  more  as  I  have  already  spent,  for  you  have  come  to  a 
very  poor  house."  So  saying,  he  received  them  into  his  house 
in  humility  and  conducted  them  into  his  garden;  and  then, 
not  having  any  person  to  keep  her  company,  he  said :  "  Ma- 
donna, since  there  is  no  one  else,  this  good  woman,  the  wife 
of  my  gardener,  will  keep  you  company  while  I  go  to  arrange 
the  table." 

He,  although  his  poverty  was  so  great,  had  not  yet 
realised  how  he  had,  without  method  or  pleasure,  spent  his 
fortune;  but  this  morning,  finding  nothing  with  which  he 
could  do  honour  to  the  lady  for  whose  love  he  had  already 
entertained  so  many  men,  made  him  think  and  suffer  ex- 
tremely; he  cursed  his  fortune,  and  as  a  man  beside  himself 
ran  hither  and  thither,  finding  neither  money  nor  anything 
to  pawn.  It  being  late,  and  his  desire  to  honour  the  gentle 
lady  in  some  manner,  and  not  wishing  to  call  on  anybody 
else,  but  rather  to  do  all  himself,  his  eyes  fell  upon  his 
beloved  falcon,  which  was  in  his  cage  above  the  table.  Tie 
therefore  took  it,  and  finding  it  fat,  and  not  having  any  other 
resource,  he  considered  it  to  be  a  proper  food  for  such  a 
woman ;  and  without  thinking  any  further,  he  wrung  its  neck 
and  ordered  his  servant  that,  it  being  plucked  and  prepared, 
it  should  be  put  0x1  the  spit  and  roasted  immediately.    And 


S6       THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

setting  the  table  with  the  whitest  of  linen,  of  which  he  had 
still  a  little  left,  with  a  delighted  countenance  he  returned  to 
the  lady  and  told  her  that  such  dinner  as  he  was  able  to  pre- 
pare for  her  was  ready.  Thereupon,  the  lady  with  her  com- 
panion, rising,  went  to  dinner,  and  without  knowing  what 
she  ate  or  what  Frederick  served,  ate  the  good  falcon. 

Then,  leaving  the  table,  and  after  pleasant  conversation 
with  him,  it  appeared  to  the  lady  that  it  was  time  to  say 
what  she  had  come  for,  and  so  she  began  amiably  to  say 
to  Frederick:  "Frederick,  recalling  your  past  life  and  my 
honesty,  which  perhaps  you  considered  cruelty  and  severity, 
I  do  not  doubt  in  the  least  that  you  will  be  astonished  at  my 
presumption,  hearing  what  I  have  come  for ;  but  if  you  had 
ever  had  children,  through  whom  you  might  know  how  great 
is  the  love  which  one  bears  them,  it  seems  to  me  certain  that 
in  part  you  would  excuse  me.  But  as  you  have  not,  I,  who 
have  one,  cannot  escape  the  law  common  to  all  mothers; 
obeying  which,  I  am  obliged,  apart  from  my  own  pleasure, 
and  all  other  convention  and  duty,  to  ask  of  you  a  gift  which 
I  know  is  extremely  dear,  and  reasonably  so,  because  no 
other  delight  and  no  other  amusement  and  no  other  consola- 
tion has  your  exhausted  fortune  left  you;  this  gift  is  your 
falcon,  which  my  boy  has  become  so  strongly  enamoured  of, 
that  if  I  do  not  take  it  to  him  I  fear  that  his  illness  will  be- 
come so  much  aggravated  that  I  may  lose  him  in  conse- 
quence; therefore  I  pray  you,  not  on  account  of  the  love 
which  you  bear  me,-  but  because  of  your  nobility,  which  has 
shown  greater  courtesy  than  that  of  any  other  man,  that  you 
would  be  so  kind,  so  good,  as  to  give  it  to  me,  in  order  that 
by  this  gift  the  life  of  my  son  may  be  preserved,  and  I  be 
forever  under  obligation  to  you." 

Frederick,  hearing  what  the  lady  demanded,  and  knowing 
that  he  could  not  serve  her,  because  he  had  already  given 
it  to  her  to  eat,  commenced  in  her  presence  to  weep  so  that 
he  could  not  speak  a  word  in  reply ;  which  weeping  the  lady 
at  first  believed  to  be  for  sorrow  at  having  to  give  up  his 
good  falcon  more  than  anything  else,  and  was  about  to  tell 
him  that  she  did  not  want  it,  but,  hesitating,  waited  the  reply 
of  Frederick  until  the  weeping  ceased,  when  he  spoke  thus: 
"  Madonna,  since  it  pleased  God  that  I  bestowed  my  love 
upon  you,  raonej,  influence,  and  fortune  have  been  contrary 


FREDERICK  OF  THE  ALBERIGHI  87 

to  me,  and  have  given  me  great  trouble ;  but  all  these  things 
are  trivial  in  respect  to  what  fortune  makes  me  at  present 
suffer,  for  which  I  shall  never  have  peace,  thinking  that  you 
have  come  here  to  my  poor  house — to  which  while  I  was  rich 
you  never  deigned  to  come — and  asked  of  me  a  little  gift, 
and  that  fortune  has  so  decreed  that  I  shall  not  be  able  to 
give  it  to  you ;  and  why  I  cannot  do  so  I  will  tell  you  in  a  few 
words.  When  I  heard  that  you  in  your  kindness  wished  to 
dine  with  me,  having  regard  for  your  excellence  and  your 
worth,  I^  considered  it  worthy  and  proper  to  give  you  the 
dearest  food  in  my  power,  and  therefore  the  falcon  for  which 
you  now  ask  me  was  this  morning  prepared  for  you,  and 
you  have  had  it  roasted  on  your  plate  and  I  had  prepared  it 
with  delight;  but  now,  seeing  that  you  desire  it  in  another 
manner,  the  sorrow  that  I  cannot  so  please  you  is  so  great 
that  never  again  shall  I  have  peace  " ;  and  saying  this,  the 
feathers  and  the  feet  and  the  beak  were  brought  before  them 
in  evidence;  which  thing  the  lady  seeing  and  hearing,  first 
blamed  him  for  having  entertained  a  woman  with  such  a 
falcon,  and  then  praised  the  greatness  of  his  mind,  which  his 
poverty  had  not  been  able  to  diminish.  Then,  there  being  no 
hope  of  having  the  falcon  on  account  of  which  the  health  of 
her  son  was  in  question,  in  melancholy  she  departed  and  re- 
turned to  her  son;  who  either  for  grief  at  not  being  able  to 
have  the  falcon,  or  for  the  illness  which  might  have  brought 
him  to  this  state,  did  not  survive  for  many  days,  and  to  the 
great  sorrow  of  his  mother  passed  from  this  life. 

She,  full  of  tears  and  of  sorrow,  and  remaining  rich  and 
still  young,  was  urged  many  times  by  her  brothers  to  marry, 
which  thing  she  had  never  wished;  but  being  continually 
urged,  and  remembering  the  worth  of  Frederick  and  his  last 
munificence,  and  that  he  had  killed  his  beloved  falcon  to  hon- 
our her,  said  to  her  brothers :  "  I  would  willingly,  if  it  please 
you,  remain  as  I  am ;  but  if  it  please  you  more  that  I  should 
take  a  husband,  certainly  I  will  never  take  any  other  if  I  do 
not  take  Frederick  degli  Alberighi."  At  this  her  brothers, 
making  fun  of  her,  said :  "  Silly  creature,  what  do  you  say  ? 
Why  do  you  choose  him?  He  has  nothing  in  the  world." 
To  this  she  replied :  "  My  brothers,  I  know  very  well  that  it 
is  as  you  say;  but  I  prefer  rather  a  man  who  has  need  of 
riches,  than  riches  that  have  need  of  a  man."    The  brothers, 


S8       THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

hearing  her  mind,  and  knowing  Frederick  for  a  worthy  man, 
—although  poor — as  she  wished,  gave  her  with  all  her  wealth 
to  him;  who,  seeing  this  excellent  woman  whom  he  had  so 
much  loved  become  his  wife,  and  besides  that,  being  most 
rich,  becoming  economical,  lived  in  happiness  with  her  to 
the  end  of  his  days. 


A    LIST    OF    REPRESENTATIVE    TALES    AND 
SHORT    STORIES 


/  1500   TO    1600: 

Till  Eulenspiegel  (1515). 

Tales,  Francois  Rabelais,  Gargantua  and  Pantagruel  (1532- 

64)/ 
Grande  Parangon  de  Nouvelles  Nouvelles,  Nicolas  de  Troyes 

(1535). 
Belfagor,  Giovanni  Brevio  (1545). 
Propos  Rustiques,  Noel  du  Fail  (1547). 
The  Thousand  and  One  Nights  (earliest  Mss.,  1548). 
Baliverneries,  Noel  du  Fail  (1548). 
Le  Gene,  A.  F.  Grazzini   (i6th  century). 
Tredeci  Piacevoli  Notte,  G.  F.  Straparola  (i 550-1 554).* 
Lazarillo  de  Tormes,  D.  H.  de  Mendoza?  (1554). 
Novelle,  Matteo  Bandello  (1544-73). 
Das  Rollwagen  Biichlein,  Jorg  Wickram  (1555). 
Gartengesellschaft,  Jacob  Frei   (1556). 
Weg  Kiirzer,  M.  Montanus  (1557). 
Heptameron,  Marguerite  de  Navarre  (1558). 
Nouvelles  Recreations   et   Joyeux  Devis,   Bonaventure   des 

Periers  '(1558). 
Ecatommiti;  G.  B.  Giraldi,  or  Cinthio  (1565). 
Wendunmuth,  H.  W.  Kirchhoff  (1565-1603). 
The  Palace  of  Pleasure,  William   Painter   (1566-1567). 
Penelope's   Web,    Robert   Greene    (1588). 
Alcida,  Robert  Greene  (1588?). 
The  Gentle  Craft,  Thomas  Deloney  (1597). 

^  This  arrangement  of  dates  indicates  publication  between  the  dates 
given,  inclusive.  —  [Ed.] 

*  This  arrangement  of  dates  indicates  publication  at  the  dates 
given. — [Ed.] 

7  89 


THE    STORY    OF    ALI    BABA, 
AND    THE    FORTY    ROBBERS    DE- 
STROYED   BY    A   SLAVE 


THE  STORY  OF  ALI  BABA,  AND  THE  FORTY 
ROBBERS  DESTROYED  BY  A  SLAVE 

The  oldest  known  manuscript  of  The  Thousand  and 
One  Nights,  popularly  known  in  English  as  The  Arabian 
Nights'  Entertainments,  dates  from  1548.  The  Nights 
were  probably  reduced  to  their  present  form  in  Cairo, 
Egypt.  The  tales  are  a  working-over  into  Arabic  of  a 
much  older  Persian  original,  which  in  its  turn  must  have 
been  made  up  of  stories  collected  from  a  remoter  an- 
tiquity. In  the  transition  from  Persian  to  Arabic,  much 
was  undoubtedly  both  changed  and  added.  There  are 
three  styles  of  writing  employed  in  the  stories :  a  prose 
lying  midway  between  the  literary  language  and  the  com- 
mon speech ;  a  strange,  riming  style  built  up  rhythmically 
on  a  rime  or  rimes ;  and  lastly,  verse  proper.  To  this 
day  the  rdwi,  the  professional  story-teller,  recites  these 
tales  in  Bagdad  and  in  Cairo,  declaiming  the  prose,  in- 
toning the  rime  paragraphs,  and  chanting  the  verse  to 
the  accompaniment  of  a  rabdb. 

Regarding  the  character  of  the  stories  and  the  mate- 
rial contained  in  them,  there  may  be  distinguished  three 
categories:  beast-fables,  fairy-tales,  and  anecdotes.  The 
beast-fables  represent  probably  the  oldest  structure;  the 
fairy-tales  show  the  Eastern  imagination  at  its  best,  and 
are,  according  to  Sir  Richard  F.  Burton,  "  wholly  and 
purely  Persian";  while  the  anecdotes,  including  the  sto- 
ries introduced  to  prove  a  point  or  to  point  a  moral,  are 
the  genuine  product  of  the  Arabic  mind. 

The  Story  of  Ali  Baba  is  not  technically  a  part  of  The 
Nights.     It  comes  to  us  through  Antoine  Galland,  the 

93 


94      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

Frenchman  who  first  (1704-17)  put  The  Nights  into  Eu- 
ropean circulation.  It  is  to  be  found  with  Aladdin  and 
other  favourites,  also  apocryphal,  in  the  body  of  his 
Nights,  but  it  exists  in  no  known  manuscript  of  the  tales, 
and  has  not  yet  been  discovered  in  any  Arabic  form. 
There  are  two  plausible  theories  for  its  origin:  one  is 
that  Galland  heard  it  in  the  East,  and  wrote  it  out  from 
the  version  as  recited ;  the  other,  that  it  is  a  tale  of  late 
writing,  added  to  the  original  body  of  The  Nights,  per- 
haps in  the  seventeenth  century.  As  a  seventeenth-cen- 
tury original  for  Aladdin  has  recently  been  discovered, 
it  is  possible  that  this  is  the  true  explanation.  But  while 
the  matter  is  undecided,  Ali  Baba  may  conveniently  be 
classed  with  the  body  of  The  Nights.  As  far  as  inter- 
nal evidence  goes,  it  is  one  with  them;  certainly  no  story 
is  more  characteristic  of  the  collection  at  its  best,  and 
assuredly  none  is  better  known  to  English  readers. 

Of  English  translations  of  The  Nights,  based  on  the 
Arabic,  there  are  now  three :  that  of  E.  W.  Lane,  consid- 
erably abridged  and  somewhat  expurgated ;  that  by  John 
Payne,  based  upon  the  Macon  MSS. ;  and  Sir  Richard  F. 
Burton's,  which  contains  tales  not  included  in  the  Macon 
MSS.,  and  drawn  from  other  printed  texts,  and  manu- 
scripts. The  present  version  of  Ali  Baba  is  an  English 
translation  of  Galland's. 

AUTHORITIES  I 

A  History  of  Arabic  Literature,  by  Clement  Huart 
(Literatures  of  the  World  series). 

Terminal  Essay  by  Sir  Richard  F.  Burton  to  his 
translation  of  The  Nights. 

Arabian  Society  in  the  Middle  Ages,  by  E.  W.  Lane; 
edited  by  Stanley  Lane-Poole. 


THE  STORY  OF  ALI  BABA,  AND  THE  FORTY 
ROBBERS  DESTROYED  BY  A  SLAVE 

In  a*  town  in  Persia  there  lived  two  brothers,  one  nameci 
Cassim,  the  other  Ali  Baba.  Their  father  left  them  no  great 
property;  but  as  he  had  divided  it  equally  between  them,  \t 
should  seem  their  fortune  would  have  been  equal ;  but  chance 
directed  otherwise. 

Cassim  married  a  wife,  who,  soon  after  their  marriage, 
became  heiress  to  a  plentiful  estate,  and  a  good  shop  and 
warehouse  full  of  rich  merchandises;  so  that  he  all  at  once 
became  one  of  the  richest  and  most  considerable  merchants, 
and  lived  at  his  ease. 

Ali  Baba,  on  the  other  hand,  who  married  a  woman  as 
poor  as  himself,  lived  in  a  very  mean  habitation,  and  had  no 
other  means  to  maintain  his  wife  and  children  but  his  daily 
labour,  by  cutting  of  wood  in  a  forest  near  the  town,  and 
bringing  it  upon  three  asses,  which  were  his  whole  substance, 
to  town  to  sell. 

One  day,  when  Ali  .Baba  was  in  the  forest,  and  had  just 
cut  wood  enough  to  load  his  asses,  he  saw  at  a  distance  a 
great  cloud  of  dust,  which  seemed  to  approach  towards  him. 
He  observed  it  very  attentively,  and  distinguished  a  large 
body  of  horse  coming  briskly  on;  and  though  they  did  not 
talk  of  robbers  in  that  country,  Ali  Baba  began  to  think 
that  they  might  prove  such ;  and,  without  considering  what 
might  become  of  his  asses,  he  was  resolved  to  save  himself. 
He  climbed  up  a  large  thick  tree,  whose  branches,  at  a  little 
distance  from  the  ground,  divided  in  a  circular  form  so  close 
to  one  another  that  there  was  but  little  space  between  them. 
He  placed  himself  in  the  middle,  from  whence  he  could  see 
all  that  passed  without  being  seen ;  and  this  tree  stood  at  the 
bottom  of  a  single  rock,  which  was  very  high  above  it,  and 
so  steep  and  craggy  that  nobody  could  climb  up  it. 

This  troop,  who  were  all  well  mounted  and  well  armed, 

95 


96       THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

came  to  the  foot  of  this  rock,  and  there  dismounted.  All 
Baba  counted  forty  of  them ;  and,  by  their  looks  and  equipage, 
never  doubted  they  were  thieves.  Nor  was  he  mistaken  in 
his  opinion ;  for  they  were  a  troop  of  banditti,  who,  without 
doing  any  hurt  to  the  neighbourhood,  robbed  at  a  distance, 
and  made  that  place  their  rendezvous;  and  what  confirmed 
him  in  this  opinion  was,  every  man  unbridled  his  horse  and 
tied  him  to  some  shrub  or  other,  and  hung  about  his  neck  a 
bag  of  corn,  which  they  brought  behind  them.  Then  each  of 
them  took  his  portmanteau,  which  seemed  to  AH  Baba  to  be 
full  of  gold  and  silver  by  their  weight.  One,  who  was  most 
personable  among  them,  and  whom  he  took  to  be  their  cap- 
tain, came  with  his  portmanteau  on  his  back  under  the  tree 
in  which  Ali  Baba  was  hid;  and,  making  his  way  through 
some  shrubs,  pronounced  these  words  so  distinctly.  Open, 
Sesame,  that  Ali  Baba  heard  him.  As  soon  as  the  captain 
of  the  robbers  had  uttered  these  words,  a  door  opened;  and 
after  he  had  made  all  his  troop  go  in  before  him,  he  fol- 
lowed them,  and  the  door  shut  again  of  itself. 

The  robbers  stayed  some  time  within  the  rock;  and  Ali 
Baba,  who  feared  that  some  one,  or  all  of  them  together, 
should  come  out  and  catch  him  if  he  should  endeavour  to 
make  his  escape,  was  obliged  to  sit  patiently  in  the  tree.  He 
was,  nevertheless,  tempted  once  or  twice  to  get  down  and 
mount  one  of  their  horses,  and  lead  another,  driving  his  asses 
before  him  with  all  the  haste  he  could  to  town ;  but  the  un- 
certainty of  the  event  made  him  choose  the  safer  way. 

At  last  the  door  opened  again,  and  the  forty  robbers  came 
out.  As  the  captain  went  in  last,  he  came  out  first,  and  stood 
to  see  them  all  pass  him ;  and  then  Ali  Baba  heard  him  make 
the  door  close,  by  pronouncing  these  words,  Shut,  Sesame. 
Every  man  went  and  bridled  his  horse,  fastening  his  port- 
manteau and  mounting  again ;  and  when  the  captain  saw  them 
all  ready,  he  put  himself  at  their  head,  and  they  returned  the 
same  way  they  came. 

Ali  Baba  did  not  immediately  quit  his  tree;  for,  said  he 
to  himself,  they  may  have  forgotten  something  and  come 
back  again,  and  then  I  shall  be  taken.  He  followed  them 
with  his  eyes  as  far  as  he  could  see  them;  and  after  that 
stayed  a  considerable  time  before  he  came  down.  Remem- 
bering the  words  the  captain  of  the  robbers  made  use  of  to 


THE  STORY  OP  ALl  BAB  A  97 

cause  the  door  to  open  and  shut,  he  had  the  curiosity  to  try 
if  his  pronouncing  them  would  have  the  same  effect.  Ac- 
cordingly he  went  among  the  shrubs,  and  perceiving  the  door 
concealed  behind  them,  he  stood  before  it,  and  said,  Open, 
Sesame.    The  door  instantly  flew  wide  open. 

Ali  Baba,  who  expected  a  dark,  dismal  place,  was  very 
much  surprised  to  see  it  well-lighted  and  spacious,  cut  out  by 
men's  hands  in  the  form  of  a  vault,  which  received  the  light 
from  an  opening  at  the  top  of  the  rock,  cut  in  like  manner. 
He  saw  all  sorts  of  provisions,  and  rich  bales  of  merchan- 
dises, of  silk  stuff,  brocade,  and  valuable  carpeting,  piled 
upon  one  another;  and,  above  all,  gold  and  silver  in  great 
heaps,  and  money  in  great  leather  purses.  The  sight  of  all 
these  riches  made  him  believe  that  this  cave  had  been  occu- 
pied for  ages  by  robbers,  who  succeeded  one  another. 

Ali  Baba  did  not  stand  long  to  consider  what  he  should 
do,  but  went  immediately  into  the  cave,  and  as  soon  as  he 
was  in,  the  door  shut  again.  But  this  did  not  disturb  him, 
because  he  knew  the  secret  to  open  it  again.  He  never  re- 
garded the  silver,  but  made  the  best  use  of  his  time  in  carry- 
ing out  as  much  of  the  gold  coin,  which  was  in  bags,  at 
several  times,  as  he  thought  his  three  asses  could  carry. 
When  he  had  done,  he  collected  his  asses,  which  were  dis- 
persed, and  when  he  had  loaded  them  with  the  bags,  laid  the 
wood  on  them  in  such  a  manner  that  they  could  not  be  seen. 
When  he  had  done,  he  stood  before  the  door,  and  pronounc- 
ing the  words.  Shut,  Sesame,  the  door  closed  after  him ;  for 
it  had  shut  of  itself  while  he  was  within,  and  remained  open 
while  he  was  out.    He  then  made  the  best  of  his  way  to  town. 

When  Ali  Baba  got  home,  he  drove  his  asses  into  a  little 
yard,  and  shut  the  gates  very  carefully,  threw  off  the  wood 
that  covered  the  bags,  carried  them  into  his  house,  and 
ranged  them  in  order  before  his  wife,  who  sat  on  a  sofa. 

His  wife  handled  the  bags,  and  finding  them  full  of 
money,  suspected  that  her  husband  had  been  robbing,  inso- 
much that  when  he  brought  them  all  in,  she  could  not  help 
saying:  Ali  Baba,  have  you  been  so  unhappy  as  to — Be  quiet, 
wife,  interrupted  Ali  Baba;  Do  not  frighten  yourself;  I  am 
no  robber,  unless  he  can  be  one  who  steals  from  robbers. 
You  will  no  longer  entertain  an  ill  opinion  of  me  when  I 
shall  tell  you  my  good  fortune.    Then  he  emptied  the  bags^ 


98      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

which  raised  such  a  great  heap  of  gold  as  dazzled  his  wife's 
eyes:  and  when  he  had  done,  he  told  her  the  whole  adven- 
ture from  the  beginning  to  the  end;  and,  above  all,  recom- 
mended it  to  her  to  keep  it  secret. 

The  wife,  recovered  and  cured  of  her  fears,  rejoiced  with 
her  husband  at  their  good  luck,  and  would  count  the  money 
piece  by  piece.  Wife,  replied  Ali  Baba,  You  do  not  know 
what  you  undertake,  when  you  pretend  to  count  the  money ; 
you  will  never  have  done.  I  will  go  and  dig  a  hole  and  bury 
it ;  there  is  no  time  to  be  lost. — You  are  in  the  right  of  it,  hus- 
band, replied  the  wife.  But  let  us  know,  as  nigh  as  possible, 
how  much  we  have.  I  will  go  and  borrow  a  small  measure  in 
the  neighbourhood,  and  measure  it,  while  you  dig  the  hole. — 
What  you  are  going  to  do  is  to  no  purpose,  wife,  said  Ali 
Baba;  If  you  would  take  my  advice,  you  had  better  let  it 
alone ;  but  be  sure  to  keep  the  secret,  and  do  what  you  please. 

Away  the  wife  ran  to  her  brother-in-law,  Cassim,  who 
lived  just  by,  but  was  not  then  at  home ;  and  addressing  her- 
self to  his  wife,  desired  her  to  lend  her  a  measure  for  a  little 
while.  Her  sister-in-law  asked  her  whether  she  would  have 
a  great  or  a  small  one.  The  other  asked  for  a  small  one. 
She  bid  her  stay  a  little,  and  she  would  readily  fetch  one. 

The  sister-in-law  did  so,  but  as  she  knew  very  well  Ali 
Baba's  poverty,  she  was  curious  to  know  what  sort  of  grain 
his  wife  wanted  to  measure;  and  bethought  herself  of  art- 
fully putting  some  suet  at  the  bottom  of  the  measure,  and 
brought  it  to  her  with  an  excuse,  that  she  was  sorry  that  she 
had  made  her  stay  so  long,  but  that  she  could  not  find  it 
sooner. 

Ali  Baba's  wife  went  home,  set  the  measure  upon  the  heap 
of  gold,  and  filled  it  and  emptied  it  often,  at  a  small  distance 
upon  the  sofa,  till  she  had  done :  and  she  was  very  well  sat- 
isfied to  find  the  number  of  measures  amounted  to  as  many 
as  they  did,  and  went  to  tell  her  husband,  who  had  almost 
finished  digging  the  hole.  While  Ali  Baba  was  burying  the 
gold,  his  wife,  to  show  her  exactness  and  diligence  to  her 
sister-in-law,  carried  the  measure  back  again,  but  without 
taking  notice  that  a  piece  of  gold  stuck  at  the  bottom.  Sister, 
said  she,  giving  it  to  her  again:  You  see  that  I  have  not  kept 
your  measure  long ;  I  am  obliged  to  you  for  it,  and  return  it 
with  thanks. 


THE  STORY  OF  ALI  BABA  99 

As  soon  as  AH  Baba's  wife's  back  was  turned,  Cassim's 
wife  looked  at  the  bottom  of  the  measure,  and  was  in  an  in- 
expressible surprise  to  find  a  piece  of  gold  stuck  to  it.  Envy 
immediately  possessed  her  breast.  What !  said  she,  Has  AH 
Baba  gold  so  plentiful  as  to  measure  it?  Where  has  that 
poor  wretch  got  all  this  gold  ?  Cassim,  her  husband,  was  not 
at  home,  as  I  said  before,  but  at  his  shop,  which  he  left  al- 
ways in  the  evening.  His  wife  waited  for  him,  and  thought 
the  time  an  age ;  so  great  was  her  impatience  to  tell  him  the 
news,  at  which  he  would  be  as  much  surprised, 

Wh^n  Cassim  came  home,  his  wife  said  to  him:  Cassim, 
I  warrant  you,  you  think  yourself  rich,  but  you  are  much 
mistaken ;  AH  Baba  is  infinitely  richer  than  you ;  he  does  not 
count  his  money,  but  measures  it.  Cassim  desired  her  to 
explain  the  riddle,  which  she  did,  by  telling  him  the  strata- 
gem she  had  made  use  of  to  make  the  discovery,  and  showed 
him  the  piece  of  money,  which  was  so  old  a  coin  that  they 
could  not  tell  in  what  prince's  reign  it  was  coined. 

Cassim,  instead  of  being  pleased  at  his  brother's  pros- 
perity, conceived  a  mortal  jealousy,  and  could  not  sleep  all 
that  night  for  it,  but  went  to  him  in  the  morning  before  sun- 
rise. Now,  Cassim,  after  he  had  married  the  rich  widow, 
never  treated  AH  Baba  as  a  brother,  but  forgot  him.  AH 
Baba,  said  he,  accosting  him.  You  are  very  reserved  in  your 
affairs ;  you  pretend  to  be  miserably  poor,  and  yet  you  meas- 
ure gold.  How,  brother !  replied  AH  Baba ;  I  do  not  know 
what  you  mean :  explain  yourself. — Do  you  pretend  igno- 
rance? replied  Cassim,  showing  him  the  piece  of  gold  his 
wife  had  given  him.  How  many  of  these  pieces,  added  he. 
Have  you  ?  My  wife  found  this  at  the  bottom  of  the  meas- 
ure you  borrowed  yesterday. 

By  this  discourse  AH  Baba  perceived  that  Cassim  and 
his  wife,  through  his  own  wife's  folly,  knew  what  they  had 
so  much  reason  to  keep  secret ;  but  what  was  done  could  not 
be  recalled ;  therefore,  without  showing  the  least  surprise  or 
trouble,  he  confessed  all,  and  told  his  brother  by  what  chance 
he  had  discovered  this  retreat  of  the  thieves,  and  in  what 
place  it  was ;  and  offered  him  part  of  his  treasure  to  keep  the 
secret. — I  expect  as  much,  repHed  Cassim  haughtily;  But  I 
will  know  exactly  where  this  treasure  is,  and  the  signs  and 
tokens  how  I  may  go  to  it  myself  when  I  have  a  mind; 


100     THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

otherwise  I  will  go  and  inform  against  you,  and  then  you 
will  not  only  get  no  more,  but  will  lose  all  you  have  got, 
and  I  shall  have  my  share  for  my  information. 

Ali  Baba,  more  out  of  his  natural  good  temper  than  fright- 
ened by  the  insulting  menaces  of  a  barbarous  brother,  told 
him  all  he  desired,  and  even  the  very  words  he  was  to  make 
use  of  to  go  into  the  cave  and  to  come  out  again. 

Cassim,  who  wanted  no  more  of  Ali  Baba,  left  him,  re- 
solving to  be  beforehand  with  him,  and  hoping  to  get  all  the 
treasure  to  himself.  He  rose  early  the  next  morning  a  long 
time  before  the  sun,  and  set  out  with  ten  mules  laden  with 
great  chests,  which  he  designed  to  fill;  proposing  to  carry 
many  more  the  next  time,  according  to  the  riches  he  found; 
and  followed  the  road  which  Ali  Baba  had  told  him.  He 
was  not  long  before  he  came  to  the  rock,  and  found  out  the 
place  by  the  tree,  and  other  marks  his  brother  had  given  him. 
When  he  came  to  the  door  he  pronounced  these  words. 
Open,  Sesame,  and  it  opened;  and  when  he  was  in,  shut 
again.  In  examining  the  cave,  he  was  in  great  admiration 
to  find  much  more  riches  than  he  apprehended  by  Ali  Baba's 
relation.  He  was  so  covetous  and  fond  of  riches,  that  he 
could  have  spent  the  whole  day  in  feasting  his  eyes  with  so 
much  treasure,  if  the  thought  that  he  came  to  carry  some 
away  with  him,  and  loading  his  mules,  had  not  hindered  him. 
He  laid  as  many  bags  of  gold  as  he  could  carry  away  at  the 
door ;  and  coming  at  last  to  open  the  door,  his  thoughts  were 
so  full  of  the  great  riches  he  should  possess,  that  he  could 
not  think  of  the  necessary  word;  but  instead  of  Sesame,  said. 
Open,  Barley,  and  was  much  amazed  to  find  that  the  door 
did  not  open,  but  remained  fast  shut.  He  named  several  sorts 
of  grain,  all  but  the  right,  and  the  door  would  not  open. 

Cassim  never  expected  such  an  accident,  and  was  so 
frightened  at  the  danger  he  was  in,  that  the  more  he  endeav- 
oured to  remember  the  word  Sesame,  the  more  his  memory 
was  confounded;  and  he  had  as  much  forgotten  it  as  if  he 
had  never  heard  it  in  his  life  before.  He  threw  down  the 
bags  he  had  loaded  himself  with,  and  walked  hastily  up  and 
down  the  cave,  without  having  the  least  regard  to  all  the 
riches  that  were  round  him.  In  this  miserable  condition  we 
will  leave  him  bewailing  his  fate,  and  undeserving  of  pity. 

About  noon  the  robbers  returned  to  their  cave,  and  at 


THE  STORV  O^  ALI  BABA  loi 

some  distance  from  it  saw  Cassim's  'mules  str^gg^Kng^'^ about 
the  rock,  with  great  chests  on  their  backs.  Alarmed  at  this 
novelty  they  galloped  full  speed  to  the  cave.  They  drove 
away  the  mules,  which  Cassim  had  neglected  to  fasten,  and 
they  strayed  away  through  the  forest  so  far  that  they  were 
soon  out  of  sight.  The  robbers  never  gave  themselves  the 
trouble  to  pursue  the  mules;  they  were  more  concerned  to 
know  whom  they  belonged  to.  And  while  some  of  them 
searched  about  the  rock,  the  captain  and  the  rest  went  di- 
rectly to  the  door,  with  their  naked  sabres  in  their  hands; 
and  pronouncing  the  words,  it  opened. 

Cassim,  who  heard  the  noise  of  the  horses'  feet  from  the 
middle  of  the  cave,  never  doubted  of  the  coming  of  the  rob- 
bers and  his  approaching  death;  but  resolved  to  make  one 
effort  to  escape  from  them.  To  this  end  he  stood  ready  at 
the  door,  and  no  sooner  heard  the  word  Sesame,  which  he 
had  forgotten,  and  saw  the  door  open,  but  he  jumped  briskly 
out,  and  threw  the  captain  down;  but  could  not  escape  the 
other  robbers,  who  with  their  sabres  soon  deprived  him  of 
life. 

The  first  care  of  the  robbers  after  this  was  to  go  into  the 
cave.  They  found  all  the  bags  which  Cassim  had  brought 
to  the  door,  to  be  more  ready  to  load  his  mules  with ;  and 
carried  them  all  back  again  to  their  places,  without  perceiv- 
ing what  Ali  Baba  had  taken  away  before.  Then  holding  a 
council,  and  deliberating  upon  this  matter,  they  guessed  that 
Cassim,  when  he  was  in,  could  not  get  out  again ;  but  they 
could  not  imagine  how  he  got  in.  It  came  into  their  heads 
that  he  might  have  got  down  by  the  top  of  the  cave ;  but  the 
opening  by  which  it  received  light  was  so  high,  and  the  top 
of  the  rock  so  inaccessible  without,  besides  that  nothing 
showed  that  he  had  done  so,  that  they  believed  it  impractica- 
ble for  them  to  find  out.  That  he  came  in  at  the  door  they 
could  not  satisfy  themselves,  unless  he  had  the  secret  of 
making  it  open.  In  short,  none  of  them  could  imagine  which 
way  he  entered;  for  they  were  all  persuaded  that  nobody 
knew  their  secret,  little  imagining  that  Ali  Baba  had  watched 
them.  But,  however  it  happened,  it  was  a  matter  of  the 
greatest  importance  to  them  to  secure  their  riches.  They 
agreed,  therefore,  to  cut  Cassim's  body  into  four  quarters; 
and  to  hang  two  on  one  side,  and  two  on  the  other,  within 


102  Tm,^<\ti,6^  THE  SHORT  STORY 

the 'door  of  the  cave,  to  terrify  any  person  that  should  attempt 
the  same  thing,  determining  not  to  return  to  the  cave  till 
the  stench  of  the  body  was  completely  exhaled. 

They  had  no  sooner  taken  this  resolution  than  they  exe- 
cuted it;  and  when  they  had  nothing  more  to  detain  them, 
they  left  the  place  of  their  retreat  well  closed.  They  mounted 
their  horses  and  went  to  beat  the  roads  again,  and  to  attack 
the  caravans  they  should  meet. 

In  the  meantime  Cassim's  wife  was  very  uneasy  when 
night  came  and  her  husband  was  not  returned.  She  ran  to 
Ali  Baba  in  a  terrible  fright,  and  said:  I  believe,  brother-in- 
law,  that  you  know  that  Cassim,  your  brother,  is  gone  to  the 
forest,  and  upon  what  account;  it  is  now  night,  and  he  is  not 
returned;  I  am  afraid  some  misfortune  has  come  to  him. 
Ali  Baba,  who  never  disputed  but  that  his  brother,  after  what 
he  had  said  to  him,  would  go  to  the  forest,  declined  going 
himself  that  day,  for  fear  of  giving  him  any  umbrage ;  there- 
fore told  her,  without  any  reflection  upon  her  husband's  un- 
handsome behaviour,  that  she  need  not  frighten  herself,  for 
that  certainly  Cassim  did  not  think  it  proper  to  come  into 
the  town  till  the  night  should  be  pretty  far  advanced. 

Cassim's  wife,  considering  how  much  it  concerned  her 
husband  to  keep  this  thing  secret,  was  the  more  easily  per- 
suaded to  believe  him.  She  went  home  again,  and  waited 
patiently  till  midnight.  Then  her  fear  redoubled  with  grief 
the  more  sensible,  because  she  durst  not  vent  it,  nor  show  it, 
but  was  forced  to  keep  it  secret  from  the  neighbourhood. 
Then,  as  if  her  fault  had  been  irreparable,  she  repented  of  her 
foolish  curiosity,  and  cursed  her  desire  of  penetrating  into 
the  affairs  of  her  brother-  and  sister-in-law.  She  spent  all 
that  night  in  weeping;  and  as  soon  as  it  was  day,  went  to 
them,  telling  them,  by  her  tears,  the  cause  of  her  coming. 

Ali  Baba  did  not  wait  for  his  sister-in-law  to  desire  him  to 
go  and  see  what  was  become  of  Cassim,  but  went  immediately 
with  his  three  asses,  begging  of  her  at  first  to  moderate  her 
affliction.  He  went  to  the  forest,  and  when  he  came  near 
the  rock,  and  having  seen  neither  his  brother  nor  his  mules 
in  his  way,  he  was  very  much  surprised  to  see  some  blood 
spilt  by  the  door,  which  he  took  for  an  ill  omen;  but  when 
he  had  pronounced  the  word,  and  the  door  opened,  he  was 
much  more  startled  at  the  dismal  sight  of  his  brother's  quar- 


THE  STORY  OF  ALI  BABA  1 03 

ters.  He  was  not  long  in  determining  how  he  should  pay  the 
last  dues  to  his  brother;  and,  without  remembering  the  little 
brotherly  friendship  he  had  for  him,  went  into  the  cave,  to 
find  something  to  wrap  them  in,  and  loaded  one  of  his  asses 
with  them,  and  covered  them  over  with  wood.  The  other  two 
asses  he  loaded  with  bags  of  gold,  covering  them  with  wood 
also  as  before ;  and  then  bidding  the  door  shut,  came  away : 
but  was  so  cautious  as  to  stop  some  time  at  the  end  of  the 
forest,  that  he  might  not  go  into  the  town  before  night. 
When  -^he  came  home,  he  drove  the  two  asses  loaded  with 
gold  into  his  little  yard ;  and  left  the  care  of  unloading  them 
to  his  wife,  while  he  led  the  other  to  his  sister-in-law's. 

Ali  Baba  knocked  at  the  door,  which  was  opened  by 
Morgiana,  a  cunning,  intelligent  slave,  fruitful  in  inventions 
to  insure  success  in  the  most  difficult  undertakings :  and  Ali 
Baba  knew  her  to  be  such.  When  he  came  into  the  court, 
he  unloaded  the  ass ;  and,  taking  Morgiana  aside,  said  to  her : 
The  first  thing  I  ask  of  you  is  an  inviolable  secrecy,  which 
you  will  find  is  necessary  both  for  your  mistress's  sake  and 
mine.  Your  master's  body  is  contained  in  these  two  bundles ; 
and  our  business  is,  to  bury  him  as  if  he  died  a  natural  death. 
Go,  tell  your  mistress  I  want  to  speak  with  her;  and  mind 
what  I  say  to  you. 

Morgiana  went  to  her  mistress,  and  Ali  Baba  followed 
her.  Well,  brother,  said  she,  with  great  impatience,  What 
news  do  you  bring  me  of  my  husband?  I  perceive  no  com- 
fort in  your  countenance. — Sister,  answered  Ali  Baba,  I  can- 
not tell  you  anything  before  you  hear  my  story  from  the 
beginning  to  the  end,  without  speaking  a  word;  for  it  is  ot 
as  great  importance  to  you  as  to  me  to  keep  what  has  hap- 
pened secret. — Alas !  said  she.  This  preamble  lets  me  know 
that  my  husband  is  dead;  but  at  the  same  time  I  know  the 
necessity  of  the  secrecy  you  require  of  me,  and  I  must  con- 
strain myself :  say  on ;  I  will  hear  you. 

Then  Ali  Baba  told  his  sister  the  success  of  his  journey, 
till  he  came  to  the  finding  of  Cassim's  body.  Now,  said  he, 
Sister,  I  have  something  to  tell  you,  which  will  afflict  you 
much  the  more,  because  it  is  what  you  so  little  expect ;  but 
it  cannot  now  be  remedied ;  and  if  anything  can  comfort  you, 
I  offer  to  put  that  little  which  God  hath  sent  me,  to  what  you 
have,  and  marry  you;  assuring  you  that  my  wife  will  not  be 


104      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

jealous,  and  that  we  shall  live  happily  together.  If  this  pro- 
posal is  agreeable  to  you,  we  must  think  of  acting  so,  as 
that  my  brother  should  appear  to  have  died  a  natural  death. 
I  think  you  may  leave  the  management  of  it  to  Morgiana, 
and  I  will  contribute  all  that  lies  in  my  power. 

What  could  Cassim's  widow  do  better  than  accept  of  this 
proposal?  For  though  her  first  husband  had  left  behind  him 
plentiful  substance,  this  second  was  much  richer,  and  by  the 
discovery  of  this  treasure  might  be  much  more  so.  Instead 
of  rejecting  the  offer,  she  looked  upon  it  as  a  reasonable 
motive  to  comfort  her ;  and  drying  up  her  tears,  which  began 
to  flow  abundantly,  and  suppressing  the  outcries  usual  with 
women  who  have  lost  their  husbands,  showed  AH  Baba  she 
approved  of  his  proposal.  Ali  Baba  left  the  widow,  and 
recommended  to  Morgiana  to  act  her  part  well,  and  then 
returned  home  with  his  ass. 

Morgiana  went  out  at  the  same  time  to  an  apothecary, 
and  asked  him  for  a  sort  of  lozenges,  which  he  prepared,  and 
which  were  very  efficacious  in  the  most  dangerous  distem- 
pers. The  apothecary  asked  her  who  was  sick  at  her  mas- 
ter's. She  replied  with  a  sigh,  her  good  master,  Cassim  him- 
self:  that  they  knew  not  what  his  distemper  was,  but  that  he 
could  neither  eat  nor  speak.  After  these  words  Morgiana 
carried  the  lozenges  home  with  her,  and  the  next  morning 
went  to  the  same  apothecary's  again;  and,  with  tears  in  her 
eyes,  asked  for  an  essence  which  they  used  to  give  to  sick 
people  only  when  at  the  last  extremity.  Alas !  said  she, 
taking  it  from  the  apothecary,  I  am  afraid  that  this  remedy 
will  have  no  better  effect  than  the  lozenges,  and  that  I  shall 
lose  my  good  master. 

On  the  other  hand,  as  Ali  Baba  and  his  wife  were  often 
seen  to  go  between  Cassim's  and  their  own  house  all  that  day, 
and  to  seem  melancholy,  nobody  was  surprised  in  the  even- 
ing to  hear  the  lamentable  shrieks  and  cries  of  Cassim's 
wife  and  Morgiana,  who  told  it  everywhere  that  her  master 
was  dead. 

The  next  morning  soon  after  day  appeared,  Morgiana, 
who  knew  a  certain  old  cobbler  that  opened  his  stall  early, 
before  other  people,  went  to  him,  and,  bidding  him  good 
morrow,  put  a  piece  of  gold  into  his  hand. — Well,  said  Baba 
Mustapha,  which  was  his  name,  and  who  was  a  merry  old 


THE  STORY  OF  ALI   BABA  105 

fellow,  looking  on  the  gold,  though  it  was  hardly  daylight, 
and  seeing  what  it  was :  This  is  good  hansel ;  what  must  I  do 
for  it?    I  am  ready. 

Baba  Mustapha,  saidMorgiana,  You  must  take  with  you 
your  sewing-tackle,  and  go  with  me;  but  I  must  tell  you,  I 
shall  blindfold  you  when  you  come  to  such  a  place. 

Baba  Mustapha  seemed  to  boggle  a  little  at  these  words. 
Oh,  oh  !  replied  he,  You  would  have  me  do  something  against 
my  conscience,  or  against  my  honour. — God  forbid  !  said  Mor- 
giana,  j^utting  another  piece  of  gold  into  his  hand.  That  I 
should  ask  anything  that  is  contrary  to  your  honour;  only 
come  along  with  me  and  fear  nothing. 

Baba  Mustapha  went  with  Morgiana,  who,  after  she  had 
bound  his  eyes  with  a  handkerchief,  at  the  place  she  told 
him  of,  carried  him  to  her  deceased  master's  house,  and  never 
unloosed  his  eyes  till  he  came  into  the  room  where  she  had 
put  the  corpse  together.  Baba  Mustapha,  said  she.  You  must 
make  haste,  and  sew  these  quarters  together;  and  when  you 
have  done,  I  will  give  you  another  piece  of  gold. 

After  Baba  Mustapha  had  done,  she  blindfolded  him 
again,  gave  him  the  third  piece  of  gold,  as  she  promised, 
recommending  secrecy  to  him,  carried  him  back  to  the  place 
where  she  first  bound  his  eyes,  pulled  off  the  bandage,  and  let 
him  go  home,  but  watched  him  that  he  returned  to  his  stall, 
till  he  was  quite  out  of  sight,  for  fear  he  should  have  the 
curiosity  to  return  and  dodge  her,  and  then  went  home. 

By  the  time  Morgiana  had  warmed  some  water  to  wash 
the  body,  Ali  Baba  came  with  incense  to  embalm  it,  and  bury 
it  with  the  usual  ceremonies.  Not  long  after,  the  joiner,  ac- 
cording to  Ali  Baba's  orders,  brought  the  coffin,  which  Morgi- 
ana, that  he  might  find  out  nothing,  received  at  the  door, 
and  helped  Ali  Baba  to  put  the  body  into  it;  and  as  soon  as 
he  had  nailed  it  up,  she  went  to  the  mosque  to  tell  the  imam 
that  they  were  ready.  The  people  of  the  mosque,  whose 
business  it  was  to  wash  the  dead,  offered  to  perform  their 
duty,  but  she  told  them  it  was  done  already. 

Morgiana  had  scarce  got  home  before  the  imam  and  the 
other  ministers  of  the  mosque  came.  Four  neighbours  car- 
ried the  corpse  on  their  shoulders  to  the  burying-ground,  fol- 
lowing the  imam,  who  recited  some  prayers.  Morgiana,  as  a 
slave  to  the  deceased,  followed  the  corpse,  weeping,  beating 
8 


io6      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

her  breast,  and  tearing  her  hair.  And  Ali  Baba  came  after 
with  some  neighbours,  who  often  relieved  the  others  in  car- 
rying the  corpse  to  the  burying-ground. 

Cassim's  wife  stayed  at  home  mourning,  uttering  lam- 
entable cries  with  the  women  of  the  neighbourhood,  who 
came  according  to  custom  during  the  funeral;  and,  joining 
their  lamentations  with  hers,  filled  the  quarter  far  and  near 
with  sorrow. 

In  this  manner  Cassim's  melancholy  death  was  concealed 
and  hushed  up  between  Ali  Baba,  his  wife,  Cassim's  widow, 
and  Morgiana,  with  so  much  contrivance,  that  nobody  in  the 
city  had  the  least  knowledge  or  suspiciqn  of  it. 

Three  or  four  days  after  the  funeral,  Ali  Baba  removed 
his  few  goods  to  the  house  of  his  brother's  widow;  but  the 
money  he  had  taken  from  the  robbers  he  conveyed  thither  by 
night;  and  soon  after  the  marriage  with  his  sister-in-law  was 
published,  and  as  these  marriages  are  common  in  our  religion, 
nobody  was  surprised. 

As  for  Cassim's  shop,  Ali  Baba  gave  it  to  his  own  eldest 
son,  who  had  been  some  time  out  of  his  apprenticeship  to  a 
great  merchant;  promising  him  withal,  that  if  he  managed 
well,  he  would  soon  give  him  a  fortune  to  marry  very  advan- 
tageously according  to  his  situation. 

Let  us  now  leave  Ali  Baba  to  enjoy  the  beginning  of  his 
good  fortune,  and  return  to  the  forty  robbers. 

They  came  again  at  the  appointed  time  to  visit  their  re- 
treat in  the  forest;  but  how  great  was  their  surprise  to  find 
Cassim's  body  taken  away,  and  some  of  their  bags  of  gold. 
We  are  certainly  discovered,  said  the  captain,  And  shall  be 
undone,  if  we  do  not  take  care  and  speedily  apply  some  rem- 
edy; otherwise  we  shall  insensibly  lose  all  the  riches  which 
our  ancestors  have  been  so  many  years  amassing  together 
with  so  much  pains  and  danger.  All  that  we  can  think  of 
this  loss  which  we  have  sustained  is,  that  the  thief  whom  we 
have  surprised  had  the  secret  of  opening  the  door,  and  we 
came  luckily  as  he  was  coming  out:  but  his  body  being  re- 
moved, and  with  it  some  of  our  money,  plainly  shows  that  he 
has  an  accomplice;  and  as  it  is  likely  that  there  were  but 
two  who  had  got  this  secret,  and  one  has  been  caught,  we 
must  look  narrowly  after  the  other.  What  say  you  to  it, 
my  lads? 


THE  STORY  OF  ALl  BABA  X07 

All  the  robbers  thought  the  captain's  proposal  so  reason- 
able, that  they  unanimously  approved  of  it;  and  agreed  that 
they  must  lay  all  other  enterprises  aside,  to  follow  this  closely, 
and  not  give  it  up  till  they  had  succeeded. 

I  expected  no  less,  said  the  captain,  From  your  courage 
and  bravery :  but,  first  of  all,  one  of  you  who  is  bold,  artful, 
and  enterprising,  must  go  into  the  town  dressed  like  a  trav- 
eller and  stranger,  and  exert  all  his  contrivance  to  try  if 
he  can  hear  any  talk  of  the  strange  death  of  the  man  whom 
we  have  Killed,  as  he  deserved,  and  to  endeavour  to  find  out 
who  he  was,  and  where  he  lived.  This  is  a  matter  of  the 
first  importance  for  us  to  know,  that  we  may  do  nothing 
which  we  may  have  reason  to  repent  of,  by  discovering  our- 
selves in  a  country  where  we  have  lived  so  long  unknown, 
and  where  we  have  so  much  reason  to  continue;  but  to 
warn  that  man  who  shall  take  upon  himself  this  commis- 
sion, and  to  prevent  our  being  deceived  by  his  giving  us  a 
false  report,  which  may  be  the  cause  of  our  ruin,  I  ask  you  all, 
if  you  do  not  think  it  fit  that  in  that  case  he  shall  submit  to 
suffer  death? 

Without  waiting  for  the  suffrages  of  his  companions,  one 
of  the  robbers  started  up,  and  said :  I  submit  to  this  law,  and 
think  it  an  honour  to  expose  my  life,  by  taking  such  a  com- 
mission upon  me ;  but  remember,  at  least,  if  I  do  not  succeed, 
that  I  neither  wanted  courage,  nor  good- will  to  serve  the 
troop. 

After  this  robber  had  received  great  commendations  from 
the  captain  and  his  comrades,  he  disguised  himself  so  that 
nobody  would  take  him  for  what  he  was ;  and  taking  his  leave 
of  the  troop  that  night,  went  into  the  town  just  at  daybreak, 
and  walked  up  and  down  till  he  came  to  Baba  Mustapha's  stall, 
which  was  always  open  before  any  of  the  shops  of  the  town. 

Baba  Mustapha  was  set  on  his  seat  with  an  awl  in  his 
hand,  just  going  to  work.  The  robber  saluted  him,  bidding 
him  good  morrow;  and  perceiving  that  he  was  very  old,  he 
said :  Honest  man,  you  begin  to  work  very  early ;  is  it  possi- 
ble that  any  one  of  your  age  can  see  so  well  ?  I  question,  even 
if  it  were  somewhat  lighter,  whether  you  could  see  to  stitch. 

Certainly,  replied  Baba  Mustapha,  You  must  be  a  stranger, 
and  do  not  know  me ;  for,  old  as  I  am,  I  have  extraordinarily 
good  eyes;  and  you  will  not  doubt  it  when  I  tell  you  that  I 


Io8     THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

sewed  a  dead  body  together  in  a  place  where  I  had  not  so 
much  Hght  as  I  have  now. 

The  robber  was  overjoyed  to  think  that  he  had  addressed 
himself,  at  his  first  coming  into  the  town,  to  a  man  who  gave 
him  the  intelHgence  he  wanted,  without  asking  him.  A  dead 
body !  replied  he  with  amazement,  to  make  him  explain  him- 
self. What  could  you  sew  up  a  dead  body  for  ?  added  he :  You 
mean,  you  sewed  up  his  winding-sheet. — No,  no,  answered 
Baba  Mustapha,  I  know  what  I  say;  you  want  to  have  me 
speak  out,  but  you  shall  know  no  more. 

The  robber  wanted  no  greater  insight  to  be  persuaded 
that  he  had  discovered  what  he  came  about.  He  pulled  out 
a  piece  of  gold,  and  putting  it  into  Baba  Mustapha's  hand, 
said  to  him :  I  do  not  want  to  know  your  secret,  though  I 
can  assure  you  that  I  would  not  divulge  it  if  you  trusted  me 
with  it.  The  only  thing  which  I  desire  of  you,  is  to  do  me 
the  favour  to  show  the  house  where  you  stitched  up  the  dead 
body. 

if  I  would  do  you  that  favour  which  you  ask  of  me,  re- 
plied Baba  Mustapha,  holding  the  money  in  his  hand,  ready 
to  return  it,  I  assure  you  I  cannot ;  and  you  may  believe  me, 
on  my  word,  I  was  carried  to  a  certain  place,  where  they 
first  blinded  me,  and  then  led  me  to  the  house,  and  brought 
me  back  again  after  the  same  manner ;  therefore  you  see  the 
impossibility  of  doing  what  you  desire. 

Well,  replied. the  robber,  You  may  remember  a  little  of  the 
way  that  you  were  led  blindfold.  Come,  let  me  blind  your 
eyes  at  the  same  place.  We  will  walk  together  by  the  same 
way  and  turnings;  perhaps  you  may  remember  some  part; 
and  as  everybody  ought  to  be  paid  for  their  trouble,  there  is 
another  piece  of  gold  for  you :  gratify  me  in  what  I  ask  you. 
So  saying,  he  put  another  piece  of  gold  into  his  hand. 

The  two  pieces  of  gold  were  great  temptations  to  ,Baba 
Mustapha.  He  looked  at  them  a  long  time  in  his  hand,  with- 
out saying  a  word,  thinking  with  himself  what  he  should  do ; 
but  at  last  he  pulled  out  his  purse,  and  put  them  in.  I  cannot 
assure  you,  said  he  to  the  robber.  That  I  remember  the  way 
exactly;  but,  since  you  desire  it,  I  will  try  what  I  can  do. 
At  these  words  Baba  Mustapha  rose  up,  to  the  great  satis- 
faction of  the  robber,  and  without  shutting  up  his  shop,  where 
he  had  nothing  valuable  to  lose,  he  led  the  robber  to   the 


THE  STORY  OF  ALI  BABA  109 

place  where  Morgiana  bound  his  eyes.  It  was  here,  said 
Baba  Mustapha,  I  was  blindfolded;  and  I  turned  as  you  see 
me.  The  robber,  who  had  his  handkerchief  ready,  tied  it 
over  his  eyes,  and  walked  by  him  till  he  stopped,  partly  lead- 
ing him,  and  partly  guided  by  him.  I  think,  said  Baba 
Mustapha,  I  went  no  farther;  and  he  had  now  stopped  di- 
rectly at  Cassim's  house,  where  AH  Baba  lived  then;  upon 
which  the  thief,  before  he  pulled  off  the  band,  marked  the 
door  with  a  piece  of  chalk,  which  he  had  ready  in  his  hand; 
and  when  he  pulled  it  off,  he  asked  him  if  he  knew  whose 
house  that  was :  to  which  Baba  Mustapha  replied,  that  as  he 
did  not  live  in  that  neighbourhood  he  could  not  tell. 

The  robber,  finding  that  he  could  discover  no  more  from 
Baba  Mustapha,  thanked  him  for  the  trouble  he  had  given 
him,  and  left  him  to  go  back  to  his  stall,  while  he  returned 
to  the  forest,  persuaded  that  he  should  be  very  well  received. 

A  little  after  the  robber  and  Baba  Mustapha  parted,  Mor- 
giana went  out  of  Ali  Baba's  house  for  something;  and  com- 
ing home  again,  seeing  the  mark  the  robber  had  made,  she 
stopped  to  observe  it.  What  is  the  meaning  of  this  mark? 
said  she  to  herself;  Somebody  intends  my  master  no  good, 
or  else  some  boy  has  been  playing  the  rogue  with  it:  with 
whatever  intention  it  was  done,  added  she,  It  is  good  to  guard 
against  the  worst.  Accordingly  she  went  and  fetched  a  piece 
of  chalk,  and  marked  two  or  three  doors  on  each  side  in  the 
same  manner,  without  saying  a  word  to  her  master  or  mis- 
tress. 

In  the  meantime  the  thief  rejoined  his  troop  again  in  the 
forest,  and  told  them  the  good  success  he  had,  expatiating 
upon  his  good  fortune  in  meeting  so  soon  with  the  only  per- 
son who  could  inform  him  of  what  he  wanted  to  know.  All 
the  robbers  listened  to  him  with  the  utmost  satisfaction ;  when 
the  captain,  after  commending  his  diligence,  addressing  him- 
self to  them  all,  said :  Comrades,  we  have  no  time  to  lose ;  let 
us  all  set  off  well-armed,  without  its  appearing  who  we  are ; 
and  that  we  may  not  give  any  suspicion,  let  one  or  two  go  pri- 
vately into  the  town  together,  and  appoint  the  rendezvous  in 
the  great  square;  and  in  the  meantime  our  comrade,  who 
brought  us  the  good  news,  and  I,  will  go  and  find  out  the 
house,  that  we  may  consult  what  is  best  to  be  done. 

This  speech  and  plan  was  approved  by  all,  and  they  were 


no      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

soon  ready.  They  filed  off  in  small  parcels  of  two  or  three,  at 
the  proper  distance  from  each  other;  and  all  got  into  the  town 
without  being  in  the  least  suspected.  The  captain  and  he  that 
came  in  the  morning  as  a  spy,  came  in  last  of  all.  He  led  the 
captain  into  the  street  where  he  had  marked  Ali  Baba's 
house,  and  when  they  came  to  one  of  the  houses  which  Mor- 
giana  had  marked,  he  pointed  it  out.  But  going  a  little  far- 
ther, to  prevent  being  taken  notice  of,  the  captain  observed 
that  the  next  door  was  chalked  after  the  same  manner,  and 
in  the  same  place:  and  showing  it  to  his  guide,  asked  him 
which  house  it  was ;  that,  or  the  first.  The  guide  was  so  con- 
founded, that  he  knew  not  what  answer  to  make ;  and  much 
less,  when  he  and  the  captain  saw  five  or  six  houses  besides 
marked  after  the  same  manner.  He  assured  the  captain,  with 
an  oath,  that  he  had  marked  but  one,  and  could  not  tell  who 
had  chalked  the  rest  so  like  to  that  which  he  marked,  and 
owned,  in  that  confusion,  he  could  not  distinguish  it. 

The  captain,  finding  that  their  design  proved  abortive, 
went  directly  to  the  place  of  rendezvous  and  told  the  first  of 
his  troop  that  he  met  that  they  had  lost  their  labour,  and  must 
return  to  their  cave  the  same  way  as  they  came.  He  himself 
set  the  example)  and  they  all  returned  as  they  came. 

When  the  troop  was  all  got  together,  the  captain  told  them 
the  reason  of  their  returning;  and  presently  the  conductor 
was  declared  by  all  worthy  of  death.  He  condemned  himself, 
acknowledging  that  he  ought  to  have  taken  better  precaution, 
and  kneeled  down  to  receive  the  stroke  from  him  that  was 
appointed  to  cut  off  his  head. 

But  as  it  was  the  safety  of  the  troop  that  an  injury  should 
not  go  unpunished,  another  of  the  gang,  who  promised  him- 
self that  he  should  succeed  better,  presented  himself;  and  his 
offer  being  accepted,  he  went  and  corrupted  Baba  Mustapha, 
as  the  other  had  done;  and  being  shown  the  house,  marked 
it,  in  a  place  more  remote  from  sight,  with  red  chalk. 

Not  long  after,  Morgiana,  whose  eyes  nothing  could  es- 
cape, went  out ;  and  seeing  the  red  chalk,  and  arguing  after 
the  same  manner  with  herself,  marked  the  other  neighbours' 
houses  in  the  same  place  and  manner. 

The  robber,  at  his  return  to  his  company,  valued  himself 
very  much  upon  the  precaution  he  had  taken,  which  he  looked 
upon  as  an  infallible  way  of  distinguishing  Ali  Baba's  house 


THE  STORY  OF  ALl  BABA  Itl 

from  his  neighbours' ;  and  the  captain  and  all  of  them  thought 
it  must  succeed.  They  conveyed  themselves  into  the  town  in 
the  same  manner  as  before ;  and  when  the  robber  and  his  cap- 
tain came  to  the  street,  they  found  the  same  difficulty;  at 
which  the  captain  was  enraged,  and  the  robber  in  as  great 
confusion  as  his  predecessor. 

Thus  the  captain  and  his  troop  were  forced  to  retire  a  sec- 
ond time,  and  much  more  dissatisfied ;  and  the  robber,  as  the 
author  of  the  mistake,  underwent  the  same  punishment,  which 
he  willpgly  submitted  to. 

The  captain,  having  lost  two  brave  fellows  of  his  troop, 
was  afraid  of  diminishing  it  too  much  by  pursuing  this  plan 
to  get  information  about  Ali  Baba's  house.  He  found,  by 
their  example,  that  their  heads  were  not  so  good  as  their 
hands  on  such  occasions,  and  therefore  resolved  to  take  upon 
himself  this  important  commission. 

Accordingly,  he  went  and  addressed  himself  to  Baba  Mus- 
tapha,  who  did  him  the  same  piece  of  service  he  had  done  to 
the  former.  He  never  amused  himself  with  setting  any  par- 
ticular mark  on  the  house,  but  examined  and  observed  it  so 
carefully,  by  passing  often  by  it,  that  it  was  impossible  for 
him  to  mistake  it. 

The  captain,  very  well  satisfied  with  his  journey,  and  in- 
formed of  what  he  wanted  to  know,  returned  to  the  forest; 
and  when  he  came  into  the  cave,  where  the  troop  waited  for 
him,  he  said:  Now,  comrades,  nothing  can  prevent  our  full 
revenge;  I  am  certain  of  the  house,  and  in  my  way  hither  I 
have  thought  how  to  put  it  in  execution,  and  if  any  one 
knows  a  better  expedient,  let  him  communicate  it.  Then  he 
told  them  his  contrivance ;  and  as  they  approved  of  it,  he  or- 
dered them  to  go  into  the  towns  and  villages  about  and  buy 
nineteen  mules,  and  thirty-eight  large  leather  jars,  one  full, 
and  the  others  all  empty. 

In  two  or  three  days'  time  the  robbers  purchased  the  mules 
and  jars,  and  as  the  mouths  of  the  jars  were  rather  too  nar- 
row for  his  purpose,  the  captain  caused  them  to  be  widened; 
and  after  having  put  one  of  his  men  into  each,  with  the 
weapons  which  he  thought  fit,  leaving  open  the  seam  which 
had  been  undone  to  leave  them  room  to  breathe,  he  rubbed 
the  jars  on  the  outside  with  oil  from  the  full  vessel. 

Things  being  thus  prepared,  when  the  nineteen  mules  were 


112      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

loaded  with  thirty-seven  robbers  in  jars  and  the  jar  of  oil,  the 
captain,  as  their  driver,  set  out  with  them,  and  reached  the 
town  by  the  dusk  of  the  evening,  as  he  intended.  He  led  them 
through  the  streets  till  he  came  to  Ali  Baba's,  at  whose  door 
he  designed  to  have  knocked ;  but  was  prevented  by  his  sitting 
there,  after  supper,  to  take  a  little  fresh  air.  He  stopped  his 
mules,  and  addressed  himself  to  him,  and  said :  I  have  brought 
some  oil  here,  a  great  way,  to  sell  at  to-morrow's  market; 
and  it  is  now  so  late,  that  I  do  not  know  where  to  lodge. 
If  I  should  not  be  troublesome  to  you,  do  me  the  favour  to  let 
me  pass  the  night  with  you,  and  I  shall  be  very  much  obliged 
to  you. 

Though  Ali  Baba  had  seen  the  captain  of  the  robbers  in 
the  forest,  and  had  heard  him  speak,  it  was  impossible  for  him 
to  know  him  in  the  disguise  of  an  oil-merchant.  He  told  him 
he  should  be  welcome,  and  immediately  opened  his  gates  for 
the  mules  to  go  into  the  yard.  At  the  same  time  he  called  to 
a  slave  he  had,  and  ordered  him,  when  the  mules  were  un- 
loaded, not  only  to  put  them  into  the  stable,  but  to  give 
them  corn  and  hay;  and  then  went  to  Morgiana,  to  bid 
her  get  a  good  hot  supper  for  his  guest,  and  make  him  a 
good  bed. 

He  did  more.  To  make  his  guest  as  welcome  as  possible, 
when  he  saw  the  captain  had  unloaded  his  mules,  and  that 
they  were  put  into  the  stable  as  he  ordered,  and  he  was  look- 
ing for  a  place  to  pass  the  night  in  the  air,  he  brought  him 
into  the  hall  where  he  received  his  company,  telling  him  he 
would  not  suffer  him  to  be  in  the  court.  The  captain  e?ccused 
himself,  on  pretence  of  not  being  troublesome;  but  really  to 
have  room  to  execute  his  design,  and  it  was  not  till  after  the 
most  pressing  importunity  that  he  yielded.  Ali  Baba,  not 
content  to  keep  company  with  the  man  who  had  a  design  on 
his  life  till  supper  was  ready,  continued  talking  with  him  till 
it  was  ended,  and  repeating  his  offer  of  service. 

The  captain  rose  up  at  the  same  time,  and  went  with  him 
to  the  door;  and  while  Ali  Baba  went  into  the  kitchen  to 
speak  to  Morgiana,  he  went  into  the  yard,  under  pretence  of 
looking  at  his  mules.  Ali  Baba,  after "  charging  Morgiana 
afresh  to  take  great  care  of  his  guest,  said  to  her :  To-morrow 
I  design  to  go  to  the  bath  before  day :  take  care  my  bathing- 
linen  be  ready,  and  give  it  to   Abdallah    [which   was  the 


THE  STORY   OF  ALI  BABA  1 13 

slave's  name],  and  make  me  some  good  broth  against  I  come 
back.    After  this  he  went  to  bed. 

In  the  meantime,  the  captain  of  the  robbers  went  from  the 
stable  to  give  his  people  orders  what  to  do;  and  beginning  at 
the  first  jar,  and  so  on  to  the  last,  said  to  each  man :  As  soon 
as  I  throw  some  stones  out  of  the  chamber-window  where 
I  lie,  do  not  fail  to  cut  the  jar  open  with  the  knife  you  have 
about  you,  pointed  and  sharpened  for  the  purpose,  and  come 
out,  and  I  will  be  presently  with  you.  After  this  he  returned 
into  the  kitchen;  and  Morgiana,  taking  up  a  light,  conducted 
him  to  his  chamber,  where,  after  she  had  asked  him  if  he 
wanted  anything,  she  left  him ;  and  he,  to  avoid  any  suspicion, 
put  the  light  out  soon  after,  and  laid  himself  down  in  his 
clothes,  that  he  might  be  the  more  ready  to  rise  again. 

Morgiana,  remembering  Ali  Baba's  orders,  got  his  bath- 
ing-linen ready,  and  ordered  Abdallah,  who  was  not  then 
gone  to  bed,  to  set  on  the  pot  for  the  broth ;  but  while  she 
skimmed  the  pot  the  lamp  went  out,  and  there  was  no  more 
oil  in  the  house,  nor  any  candles.  What  to  do  she  did  not 
know,'  for  the  broth  must  be  made.  Abdallah,  seeing  her 
very  uneasy,  said :  Do  not  fret  and  tease  yourself,  but  go  into 
the  yard,  and  take  some  oil  out  of  one  of  the  jars. 

Morgiana  thanked  Abdallah  for  his  advice ;  and  while  he 
went  to  bed,  near  Ali  Baba's  room,  that  he  might  be  the  bet- 
ter able  to  rise  and  follow  Ali  Baba  to  the  bath,  she  took  the 
oil-pot,  and  went  into  the  yard;  and  as  she  came  nigh  the 
first  jar,  the  robber  within  said  softly,  Is  it  time? 

Though  the  robber  spoke  low,  Morgiana  was  struck  with 
the  voice  the  more,  because  the  captain,  when  he  unloaded 
the  mules,  opened  this  and  all  the  other  jars,  to  give  air  to 
his  men,  who  were  ill  enough  at  their  ease  without  wanting 
room  to  breathe. 

Any  other  slave  but  Morgiana,  so  surprised  as  she  was  to 
find  a  man  in  a  jar,  instead  of  the  oil  she  wanted,  would  have 
made  such  a  noise  as  to  have  given  an  alarm,  which  would 
have  been  attended  with  ill  consequences ;  whereas  Morgiana, 
apprehending  immediately  the  importance  of  keeping  the  se- 
cret, and  the  danger  Ali  Baba,  his  family,  and  she  herself 
were  in,  and  the  necessity  of  applying  a  speedy  remedy  with- 
out noise,  conceived  at  once  the  means,  and  collecting  herself 
without  showing  the  least  emotion,  answered:  Not  yet,  but 


114      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

presently.  She  went  in  this  manner  to  all  the  jars,  giving  the 
same  answer,  till  she  came  to  the  jar  of  oil. 

By  this  means,  Morgiana  found  that  her  master  Ali  Baba, 
who  thought  that  he  had  entertained  an  oil-merchant,  had 
admitted  thirty-eight  robbers  into  his  house,  looking  on  this 
pretended  merchant  as  their  captain.  She  made  what  haste 
she  could  to  fill  her  oil-pot^  and  returned  into  her  kitchen; 
where,  as  soon  as  she  had  lighted  her  lamp,  she  took  a  great 
kettle,  and  went  again  to  the  oil- jar,  filled  the  kettle,  and  set 
it  on  a  great  wood  fire  to  boil ;  and  as  soon  as  it  boiled,  went 
and  poured  enough  into  every  jar  to  stifle  and  destroy  the 
robber  within. 

When  this  action,  worthy  of  the  courage  of  Morgiana,  was 
executed  without  any  noise,  as  she  had  projected,  she  re- 
turned into  the  kitchen  with  the  empty  kettle,  and  shut  the 
door ;  and  having  put  out  the  great  fire  she  had  made  to  boil 
the  oil,  and  leaving  just  enough  to  make  the  broth,  put  out 
also  the  lamp,  and  remained  silent;  resolving  not  to  go  to  bed 
till  she  had  observed  what  was  to  follow,  through  a  window 
of  the  kitchen  which  opened  into  the  yard,  as  far  as  the 
darkness  of  the  night  permitted. 

She  had  not  waited  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  before  the  cap- 
tain of  the  robbers  waked,  got  up,  and  opened  the  window; 
and  finding  no  light,  and  hearing  no  noise,  nor  any  one  stir- 
ring in  the  house,  gave  the  signal,  by  throwing  little  stones, 
several  of  which  hit  the  jars,  as  he  doubted  not  by  the  sound 
they  gave.  Then  he  listened,  and  neither  hearing  nor  per- 
ceiving anything  whereby  he  could  judge  that  his  compan- 
ions stirred,  he  began  to  grow  very  uneasy,  and  threw  stones 
again  a  second  and  a  third  time,  and  could  not  comprehend 
the  reason  that  none  of  them  should  answer  to  his  signal: 
cruelly  alarmed,  he  went  softly  down  into  the  yard,  and  going 
to  the  first  jar,  and  asking  the  robber,  whom  he  thought 
alive,  if  he  was  asleep,  he  smelled  the  hot  boiled  oil,  which 
sent  forth  a  steam  out  of  the  jar,  and  knew  thereby  that  his 
plot  to  murder  Ali  Baba  and  plunder  his  house  was  discov- 
ered. Examining  all  the  jars  one  ofter  another,  he  found 
that  all  his  gang  were  dead;  and  by  the  oil  he  missed  out  of 
the  last  jar,  he  guessed  at  the  means  and  manner  of  their 
deaths.  Enraged  to  despair  at  having  failed  in  his  design, 
he  forced  the  lock  of  a  door,  that  led  from  the  yard  to  the 


THE  STORY  OF  ALI  BABA  115 

garden;  and,  climbing  over  the  walls  of  several  gardens,  at 
last  made  his  escape. 

When  Morgiana  heard  no  noise,  and  found,  after  waiting 
some  time,  that  the  captain  did  not  return,  she  guessed  that 
he  chose  rather  to  make  his  escape  by  the  gardens  than  by 
the  street-door,  which  was  double-locked;  satisfied  and 
pleased  to  have  succeeded  so  well,  and  at  having  secured  the 
house,  she  went  to  bed  and  fell  asleep. 

Ali  Baba  rose  before  day,  and,  followed  by  his  slave, 
went  to-lhe  baths,  entirely  ignorant  of  the  amazing  accident 
that  had  happened  at  home;  for  Morgiana  did  not  think  it 
right  to  wake  him  before  for  fear  of  losing  her  opportunity ; 
and  afterwards  she  thought  it  needless  to  disturb  him. 

When  he  returned  from  the  baths,  and  the  sun  had  risen, 
he  was  very  much  surprised  to  see  the  oil-jars,  and  that  the 
merchant  was  not  gone  with  the  mules.  He  asked  Morgiana, 
who  opened  the  door,  and  had  let  all  things  stand  as  they 
were,  that  he  might  see  them,  the  reason  of  it.  My  good  mas- 
ter, answered  she,  God  preserve  you  and  all  your  family ! 
You  will  be  better  informed  of  what  you  wish  to  know  when 
you  have  seen  what  I  have  to  show  you,  if  you  will  give 
yourself  the  trouble  to  follow  me. 

As  soon  as  Morgiana  had  shut  the  door,  Ali  Baba  followed 
her;  and  when  she  brought  him  into  the  yard,  she  bid  him 
look  into  the  first  jar,  and  see  if  there  was  any  oil.  Ali  Baba 
did  so,  and  seeing  a  man,  started  back  frightened,  and  cried 
out.  Do  not  be  afraid,  said  Morgiana ;  The  man  you  see  there 
can  neither  do  you  nor  anybody  else  any  harm.  He  is  dead. — ■ 
Ah,  Morgiana  !  said  Ali  Baba,  What  is  it  you  show  me  ?  Ex- 
plain the  meaning  of  it  to  me. — I  will,  replied  Morgiana; 
Moderate  your  astonishment,  and  do  not  excite  the  curiosity 
of  your  neighbours ;  for  it  is  of  great  importance  to  keep  this 
affair  secret.    Look  in  all  the  other  jars. 

Ali  Baba  examined  all  the  other  jars,  one  after  another; 
and  when  he  came  to  that  which  had  the  oil  in  it,  he  found 
it  prodigiously  sunk,  and  stood  for  some  time  motionless, 
sometimes  looking  on  the  jars,  sometimes  on  Morgiana, 
without  saying  a  word,  so  great  was  his  surprise:  at  last, 
when  he  had  recovered  himself,  he  said :  And  what  is  become 
of  the  merchant? 

Merchant !  answered  she :  He  is  as  much  one  as  I  am.    I 


il<  THE  iBOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

will  tell  you  who  he  is,  and  what  is  become  of  him ;  but  yoU 
had  better  hear  the  story  in  your  own  chamber;  for  it  is 
time  for  your  health  that  you  had  your  broth  after  your 
bathing. 

While  AH  Baba  went  into  his  chamber,  Morgiana  went 
into  the  kitchen  to  fetch  the  broth  and  carry  it  to  him;  but 
before  he  would  drink  it,  he  first  bid  her  satisfy  his  impa- 
tience, and  tell  him  the  story  with  all  its  circumstances ;  and 
she  obeyed  him. 

Last  night,  sir,  said  she.  When  you  were  gone  to  bed,  I 
got  your  bathing-linen  ready,  and  gave  it  to  Abdallah ; 
afterwards  I  set  on  the  pot  for  the  broth,  and  as  I  was  skim- 
ming the  pot,  the  lamp,  for  want  of  oil,  went  out ;  and  as  there 
was  not  a  drop  more  in  the  house,  I  looked  for  a  candle, 
but  could  not  find  one.  Abdallah,  seeing  me  vexed,  put  me 
in  mind  of  the  jars  of  oil  which  stood  in  the  yard.  I  took 
the  oil-pot,  and  went  directly  to  the  jar  which  stood  nearest 
to  mc ;  and  when  I  came  to  it,  I  heard  a  voice  within  it  say : 
Is  it  time?  Without  being  dismayed,  and  comprehending 
immediately  the  malicious  intention  of  the  pretended  oil-mer- 
chant, I  answered:  Not  yet,  but  presently.  Then  I  went  to 
the  next,  and  another  voice  asked  me  the  same  question,  and 
I  returned  the  same  answer ;  and  so  on,  till  I  came  to  the  last, 
which  I  found  full  of  oil,  with  which  I  filled  my  pot. 

When  I  considered  that  there  were  thirty-seven  robbers 
in  the  yard,  who  only  waited  for  a  signal  to  be  given  by  the 
captain,  whom  you  took  to  be  an  oil-merchant,  and  enter- 
tained so  handsomely,  I  thought  there  was  no  time  to  be  lost : 
I  carried  my  pot  of  oil  into  the  kitchen,  lighted  the  lamp,  and 
afterwards  took  the  biggest  kettle  I  had,  went  and  filled  it 
full  of  oil,  and  set  it  on  the  fire  to  boil,  and  then  went  and 
poured  as  much  into  each  jar  as  was  sufficient  to  prevent 
them  from  executing  the  pernicious  design  they  came  about: 
after  this  I  retired  into  the  kitchen,  and  put  out  the  lamp; 
but  before  I  went  to  bed,  I  waited  at  the  window  to  know 
what  measures  the  pretended  merchant  would  take. 

After  I  had  watched  some  time  for  the  signal,  he  threw 
some  stones  out  of  the  window  against  the  jars,  and  neither 
hearing  nor  perceiving  anybody  stirring,  after  throwing  three 
times,  he  came  down,  and  I  saw  him  go  to  every  jar ;  after 
which,  through  the  darkness  of  the  night,  I  lost  sight  of  him. 


THE  STORY  OF  ALI  BABA  I17 

I  waited  some  time  longer,  and  finding  that  he  did  not  return, 
I  never  doubted  but  that,  seeing  he  had  missed  his  aim,  he 
had  made  his  escape  over  the  walls  of  the  garden.  Persuaded 
that  the  house  was  now  safe,  I  went  to  bed. 

This,  said  Morgiana,  Is  the  account  you  asked  of  me ;  and 
I  am  convinced  it  is  the  consequence  of  an  observation  which 
I  had  made  for  two  or  three  days  before,  but  did  not  think  fit 
to  acquaint  you  with ;  for  when  I  came  in  one  morning  early, 
I  found  our  street-door  marked  with  white  chalk,  and  the  next 
morning  with  red ;  and  both  times,  without  knowing  what  was 
the  intention  of  those  chalks,  I  marked  two  or  three  neigh- 
bours' doors  on  each  hand  after  the  same  manner.  If  you  re- 
flect on  this,  and  what  has  since  happened,  you  will  find 
it  to  be  a  plot  of  the  robbers  of  the  forest,  of  whose  gang 
there  are  two  wanting,  and  now  they  are  reduced  to  three: 
all  this  shows  that  they  had  sworn  your  destruction,  and  it 
is  proper  you  should  stand  upon  your  guard,  while  there 
is  one  of  them  alive:  for  my  part  I  shall  not  neglect  any- 
thing necessary  to  your  preservation,  as  I  am  in  duty 
bound. 

When  Morgiana  had  left  off  speaking,  Ali  Baba  was  so 
sensible  of  the  great  service  she  had  done  him,  that  he  said 
to  her :  I  will  not  die  without  rewarding  you  as  you  deserve ; 
I  owe  my  life  to  you,  and  for  the  first  token  of  my  acknowl- 
edgment I  will  give  you  your  liberty  from  this  moment,  till 
I  can  complete  your  recompense  as  I  intend.  I  am  persuaded 
with  you  that  the  forty  robbers  have  laid  all  manner  of  snares 
for  me :  God,  by  your  means,  has  delivered  me  from  them, 
and  I  hope  will  continue  to  preserve  me  from  their  wicked 
designs;  and,  by  averting  the  danger  which  threatened  me, 
will  deliver  the  world  from  their  persecution  and  their  cursed 
race.  All  that  we  have  to  do  is  to  bury  the  bodies  of  these 
pests  of  mankind  immediately,  and  with  all  the  secrecy  im- 
aginable, that  nobody  may  suspect  what  has  become  of  them. 
But  that  Abdallah  and  I  will  undertake. 

Ali  Baba's  garden  was  very  long,  and  shaded  at  the  far- 
ther end  by  a  great  number  of  large  trees.  Under  these  trees 
he  and  the  slave  went  and  dug  a  trench,  long  and  wide  enough 
to  hold  all  the  robbers ;  and  as  the  earth  was  light,  they  were 
not  long  doing  it.  Afterwards  they  lifted  the  bodies  out  of 
the  jars,  took  away  their  weapons,  carried  them  to  the  end 


Ii8      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

of  the  garden,  laid  them  in  the  trench,  and  levelled  the  ground 
again.  When  this  was  done,  Ali  Baba  hid  the  jars  and  weap- 
ons ;  and  as  for  the  mules,  as  he  had  no  occasion  for  them, 
he  sent  them  at  different  times  to  be  sold  in  the  market  by  his 
slave. 

When  Ali  Baba  took  these  measures  to  prevent  the  pub- 
lic from  knowing  how  he  came  by  his  riches  in  so  short  ^ 
time,  the  captain  of  the  forty  robbers  returned  to  the  forest, 
in  most  inconceivable  mortification;  and  in  the  agitation,  or 
rather  confusion,  he  was  in  at  his  success,  so  contrary  to 
what  he  had  promised  himself,  he  entered  the  cave,  not  being 
able,  all  the  way  from  the  town,  to  come  to  any  resolution 
what  to  do  to  Ali  Baba. 

The  loneliness  of  the  dark  place  seemed  frightful  to  him. 
Where  are  you,  my  brave  lads,  cried  he.  Old  companions  of 
my  watchings,  inroads,  and  labour?  What  can  I  do  without 
you  ?  Did  I  collect  you  to  lose  you  by  so  base  a  fate,  and  one 
so  unworthy  your  courage?  Had  you  died  with  your  sabres 
in  your  hands,  like  brave  men,  my  regret  had  been  less ! 
When  shall  I  get  so  gallant  a  troop  again?  And  if  I  could, 
can  I  undertake  it  without  exposing  so  much  gold  and  treas- 
ure to  him,  who  hath  already  enriched  himself  out  of  it?  I 
cannot,  I  ought  not  to  think  of  it,  before  I  have  taken  away 
his  life.  I  will  undertake  that  myself,  which  I  could  not  ac- 
complish with  so  powerful  assistance ;  and  when  I  have  taken 
care  to  secure  this  treasure  from  being  pillaged,  I  will  pro- 
vide for  it  new  masters  and  successors  after  me,  who  shall 
preserve  and  augment  it  to  all  posterity.  This  resolution 
being  taken,  he  was  not  at  a  loss  how  to  execute  it ;  but,  easy 
in  his  mind,  and  full  of  hopes,  he  slept  all  that  night  very 
quietly. 

When  he  awoke  early  next  morning,  as  he  had  proposed, 
he  dressed  himself,  agreeably  to  the  project  he  had  in  his 
head,  and  went  to  the  town,  and  took  a  lodging  in  a  khan. 
And  as  he  expected  what  had  happened  at  Ali  Baba's  might 
make  a  great  noise  in  the  town,  he  asked  his  host,  by  way  of 
discourse,  what  news  there  was  in  the  city.  Upon  which  the 
innkeeper  told  him  a  great  many  things,  which  did  not  con- 
cern him  in  the  least.  He  judged  by  this  that  the  reason  why 
Ali  Baba  kept  this  affair  so  secret  was  for  fear  people  should 
know  where  the  treasure  lay,  find  the  means  of  coming  at  it; 


THE  STORY  OF  ALI  BABA  II9 

and  because. he  knew  his  life  would  be  sought  upon  account 
of  it.  And  this  urged  him  the  more  to  neglect  nothing  to 
rid  himself  of  so  dangerous  a  person. 

The  next  thing  that  the  captain  had  to  do  was  to  provide 
himself  with  a  horse,  to  convey  a  great  many  sorts  of  rich 
stuffs  and  fine  linen  to  his  lodging,  which  he  did  by  a  great 
many  journeys  to  the  forest,  but  with  all  the  necessary  pre- 
cautions imaginable  to  conceal  the  place  whence  he  brought 
them.  In  order  to  dispose  of  the  merchandises,  when  he  had 
amassed  tjiem  together,  he  took  a  furnished  shop,  which  hap- 
pened to  be  opposite  to  that  which  was  Cassim's,  which  Ali 
Baba's  son  had  not  long  occupied. 

He  took  upon  him  the  name  of  Cogia  Houssain;  and  as 
a  newcomer,  was,  according  to  custom,  extremely  civil  and 
complaisant  to  all  the  merchants  his  neighbours.  And  as  Ali 
Baba's  son  was  young  and  handsome,  and  a  man  of  good 
sense,  and  was  often  obliged  to  converse  with  Cogia  Hous- 
sain, he  soon  made  them  acquainted  with  him.  He  strove  to 
cultivate  his  friendship,  more  particularly  when,  two  or  three 
days  after  he  was  settled,  he  recognized  Ali  Baba,  who  came 
to  see  his  son,  and  stopped  to  talk  with  him  as  he  was  ac- 
customed to  do ;  and  when  he  was  gone,  he  learned  from  his 
son  who  he  was.  *  He  increased  his  assiduities,  caressed  him 
after  the  most  engaging  manner,  made  him  some  small  pres- 
ents, and  often  asked  him  to  dine  and  sup  with  him;  and 
treated  him  very  handsomely. 

Ali  Baba's  son  did  not  care  to  lie  under  such  obligation 
to  Cogia  Houssain  without  making  the  like  return ;  but  was 
so  much  straitened  for  want  of  room  in  his  house,  that  he 
could  not  entertain  him  so  well  as  he  wished;  and  therefore 
acquainted  his  father,  Ali  Baba,  with  his  intention,  and  told 
him  that  it  did  not  look  well  for  him  to  receive  such  favours 
from  Cogia  Houssain  without  inviting  him  again. 

Ali  Baba,  with  great  pleasure,  took  the  treat  upon  him- 
self. Son,  said  he,  To-morrow  (Friday),  which  is  a  day  that 
the  shops  of  such  great  merchants  as  Cogia  Houssain  and 
yourself  are  shut,  get  him  to  take  a  walk  with  you  after  din- 
ner, and  as  you  come  back,  pass  by  my  door,  and  call  in.  It 
will  look  better  to  have  it  happen  accidentally,  than  if  you 
gave  him  a  formal  invitation.  I  will  go  and  order  Morgiana 
to  provide  a  supper. 


120      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

The  next  day,  after  dinner,  Ali  Baba's  son  and  Cogia 
Houssain  met  by  appointment,  and  took  their  walk;  and  as 
they  returned,  Ali  Baba's  son  led  Cogia  Houssain  through  the 
street  where  his  father  lived;  and  when  they  came  to  the 
house,  he  stopped  and  knocked  at  the  door.  This,  sir,  said  he. 
Is  my  father's  house ;  who,  upon  the  account  I  have  given  him 
of  your  friendship,  charged  me  to  procure  him  the  honour  of 
your  acquaintance;  and  I  desire  you  to  add  this  pleasure  to 
those  I  am  already  indebted  to  you  for. 

Though  it  was  the  sole  aim  of  Cogia  Houssain  to  intro- 
duce himself  into  Ali  Baba's  house,  that  he  might  kill  him 
without  hazarding  his  own  life  or  making  any  noise,  yet  he 
excused  himself,  and  offered  to  take  his  leave.  But  a  slave 
having  opened  the  door,  Ali  Baba's  son  took  him  obligingly 
by  the  hand,  and  in  a  manner  forced  him  in. 

Ali  Baba  received  Cogia  Houssain  with  a  smiling  coun- 
tenance, and  in  the  most  obliging  manner  he  could  wish.  He 
thanked  him  for  all  the  favours  he  had  done  his  son;  adding 
withal,  the  obligation  was  the  greater,  as  he  was  a  young  man 
not  very  well  acquainted  with  the  world,  and  that  he  might 
contribute  to  his  information. 

Cogia  Houssain  returned  the  compliment,  by  assuring  Ali 
Baba  that  though  his  son  might  not  have  acquired  the  experi- 
ence of  older  men,  he  had  good  sense  equal  to  the  experience 
of  many  others.  After  a  little  more  conversation  on  differ- 
ent subjects,  he  offered  again  to  take  his  leave;  when  Ali 
Baba,  stopping  him,  said :  Where  are  you  going,  sir,  in  so 
much  haste  ?  I  beg  you  would  do  me  the  honour  to  sup  with 
me,  though  what  I  have  to  give  you  is  not  worth  your  ac- 
ceptance ;  but  such  as  it  is,  I  hope  you  will  accept  it  as  heart- 
ily as  I  give  it. — Sir,  replied  Cogia  Houssain,  I  am  thoroughly 
persuaded  of  your  good-will ;  and  if  I  ask  the  favour  of  you 
not  to  take  it  ill  that  I  do  not  accept  of  your  obliging  invita- 
tion, I  beg  of  you  to  believe  that  it  does  not  proceed  from 
any  slight  or  intention  to  affront,  but  from  a  certain  reason, 
which  you  would  approve  of  if  you  knew  it. 

And  what  may  that  reason  be,  sir,  replied  Ali  Baba,  If  I 
may  be  so. bold  as  to  ask  you? — It  is,  answered  Cogia  Hous- 
sain, That  I  can  eat  no  victuals  that  have  any  salt  in  them; 
therefore  judge  how  I  should  look  at  your  table. — If  that  is- 
the  only  reason,  said  Ali  Baba,  It  ought  not  to  deprive  me  of 


THE  STORY  OF  ALI  BAB  A  121 

the  honour  of  your  company  at  supper ;  for,  in  the  first  place, 
there  is  no  salt  ever  put  into  my  bread,  and  for  the  meat  we 
shall  have  to-night  I  promise  you  there  shall  be  none.  I  v^^ill 
go  and  take  care  of  that.  Therefore  you  must  do  me  the 
favour  to  stay ;  I  will  come  again  immediately. 

Ali  Baba  went  into  the  kitchen,  and  ordered  Morgiana  to 
put  no  salt  to  the  meat  that  was  to  be  dressed  that  night; 
and  to  make  quickly  two  or  three  ragouts  besides  what  he 
had  ordered,  but  be  sure  to  put  no  salt  in  them. 

Morgiana,  who  was  always  ready  to  obey  her  master, 
could  not  help,  this  time,  seeming  dissatisfied  at  his  new 
order.  Who  is  this  difficult  man,  said  she,  Who  eats  no  salt 
with  his  meat?  Your  supper  will  be  spoiled,  if  I  keep  it  back 
so  long. — Do  not  be  angry,  Morgiana,  replied  Ali  Baba,  He 
is  an  honest  man;  therefore  do  as  I  bid  you. 

Morgiana  obeyed,  though  with  no  little  reluctance,  and 
had  a  curiosity  to  see  this  man  who  eat  no  salt.  To  this  end, 
when  she  had  done  what  she  had  to  do  in  the  kitchen,  and 
Abdallah  laid  the  cloth,  she  helped  to  carry  up  the  dishes; 
and  looking  at  Cogia  Houssain,  knew  him  at  the  first  sight 
to  be  the  captain  of  the  robbers,  notwithstanding  his  dis- 
guise; and  examining  him  very  carefully,  perceived  that  he 
had  a  dagger  hid  under  his  garment.  I  am  not  in  the  least 
amazed,  said  she  to  herself,  That  this  wicked  wretch,  who  is 
my  master's  greatest  enemy,  would  eat  no  salt  with  him,  since 
he  intends  to  assassinate  him ;  but  I  will  prevent  him. 

When  Morgiana  had  sent  up  the  supper  by  Abdallah, 
while  they  were  eating,  she  made  the  necessary  preparations 
for  executing  one  of  the  boldest  acts  which  could  be  thought 
on;  and  had  just  done,  when  Abdallah  came  again  for  the 
dessert  of  fruit,  which  she  carried  up,  and  as  soon  as  Abdallah 
had  taken  the  meat  away,  set  it  upon  the  table:  after  that, 
she  set  a  little  table  and  three  glasses  by  Ali  Baba,  and  going 
out,  took  Abdallah  along  with  her  to  go  to  supper  together, 
and  to  give  Ali  Baba  the  more  liberty  of  conversation  with 
his  guest. 

Then  the  pretended  Cogia  Houssain,  or  rather  captain  of 
the  robbers,  thought  he  had  a  favourable  opportunity  to  kill 
Ali  Baba.  I  will,  said  he  to  himself,  make  the  father  and  son 
both  drunk;  and  then  the  son,  whose  life  I  intend  to  spare, 
will  not  be  able  to  prevent  my  stabbing  his   father  to  the 


122      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

heart;  and  while  the  slaves  are  at  supper,  or  asleep  in  the 
kitchen,  I  can  make  my  escape  over  the  gardens  as  before. 

Instead  of  going  to  supper,  Morgiana,  who  penetrated  into 
the  intentions  of  the  counterfeit  Cogia  Houssain,  would  not 
give  him  leave  to  put  his  villainous  design  in  execution,  but 
dressed  herself  neatly  with  a  suitable  head-dress  like  a  dancer, 
girded  her  waist  with  a  silver-gilt  girdle,  to  which  there  hung 
a  poniard  with  a  hilt  and  guard  of  the  same  metal,  and  put  a 
handsome  mask  on  her  face.  When  she  had  thus  disguised 
herself,  she  said  to  Abdallah :  Take  your  tabour,  and  let  us 
go  and  divert  our  master  and  his  son's  guest,  as  we  do  some- 
times when  he  is  alone. 

Abdallah  took  his  tabour,  and  played  before  Morgiana  all 
the  way  into  the  hall ;  who,  when  she  came  to  the  door,  made 
a  low  curtsey,  with  a  deliberate  air,  to  make  herself  taken 
notice  of,  and  by  way  of  asking  leave  to  show  what  she 
could  do.  Abdallah,  seeing  that  his  master  had  a  mind  to 
say  something,  left  off  playing.  Come  in,  Morgiana,  said  AH 
Baba,  And  let  Cogia  Houssain  see  what  you  can  do,  that  he 
may  tell  us  what  he  thinks  of  you.  But,  sir,  said  he,  turning 
towards  Cogia  Houssain,  Do  not  think  that  I  put  myself  to 
any  expense  to  give  you  this  diversion,  since  these  are  my 
slave,  and  my  cook  and  housekeeper ;  and  I  hope  you  will  not 
find  the  entertainment  they  give  us  disagreeable. 

Cogia  Houssain,  who  did  not  expect  this  diversion  after 
supper,  began  to  fear  that  he  should  not  have  the  opportunity 
that  he  thought  he  had  found;  but  hoped,  if  he  missed  it  now, 
to  have  it  another  time,  by  keeping  up  a  friendly  correspond- 
ence with  the  father  and  son;  therefore,  though  he  could 
have  wished  Ali  Baba  would  have  let  it  alone,  he  pretended 
to  be  obliged  to  him  for  it,  and  had  the  complaisance  to  ex- 
press a  pleasure  at  what  he  saw  pleased  his  host. 

As  soon  as  Abdallah  saw  that  Ali  Baba  and  Cogia  Hous- 
sain had  done  talking,  he  began  to  play  on  the  tabour,  and  ac- 
companied it  with  an  air;  to  which  Morgiana,  who  was  an 
excellent  dancer,  danced  after  such  a  manner  as  would  have 
created  admiration  in  any  other  company  but  that  before 
which  she  now  exhibited,  among  whom,  perhaps,  none  but 
the  false  Cogia  Houssain  was  in  the  least  attentive  to  her. 

After  she  had  danced  several  dances  with  the  same  pro- 
priety and  strength,  she  drew  the  poniard,  and  holding  it  in 


THE  STORY  OF  ALI  BAB  A  123 

her  hand,  danced  a  dance,  in  which  she  outdid  herself,  by  the 
many  different  figures  and  light  movements,  and  the  surpris- 
ing leaps  and  wonderful  exertions  with  which  she  accompa- 
nied it.  Sometimes  she  presented  the  poniard  to  one's  breast, 
and  sometimes  to  another's,  and  oftentimes  seeming  to  strike 
her  own.  At  last,  as  if  she  was  out  of  breath,  she  snatched 
the  tabour  from  Abdallah  with  her  left  hand,  and  holding  the 
dagger  in  her  right,  presented  the  other  side  of  the  tabour, 
after  the  manner  of  those  who  get  a  liveHhood  by  dancing, 
and  soligit  the  liberality  of  the  spectators. 

Ali  Baba  put  a  piece  of  gold  into  the  tabour,  as  did  also 
his  son ;  and  Cogia  Houssain,  seeing  that  she  was  coming  to 
him,  had  pulled  his  purse  out  of  his  bosom  to  make  her  a 
present ;  but  while  he  was  putting  his  hand  into  it,  Morgiana, 
with  a  courage  and  resolution  worthy  of  herself,  plunged  the 
poniard  into  his  heart. 

Ali  Baba  and  his  son,  frightened  at  this  action,  cried  out 
aloud.  Unhappy  wretch  !  exclaimed  AH  Baba,  What  have  you 
done  to  ruin  me  and  my  family? — It  was  to  preserve  you, 
not  to  ruin  you,  answered  Morgiana ;  For  see  here,  said  she 
(opening  Cogia  Houssain's  garment,  and  showing  the  dag- 
ger). What  an  enemy  you  had  entertained  !  Look  well  at  him, 
and  you  will  find  him  to  be  both  the  pretended  oil-merchant 
and  the  captain  of  the  gang  of  forty  robbers.  Remember, 
too,  that  he  would  eat  no  salt  with  you ;  and  what  would  you 
have  more  to  persuade  you  of  his  wicked  design?  Before  I 
saw  him,  I  suspected  him  as  soon  as  you  told  me  you  had  such 
a  guest.  I  saw  him,  and  you  now  find  that  my  suspicion  was 
not  groundless. 

Ali  Baba,  who  immediately  felt  the  new  obligation  he  had 
to  Morgiana  for  saving  his  life  a  second  time,  embraced  her. 
Morgiana,  said  he,  I  gave  you  your  liberty,  and  then  prom- 
ised you  that  my  gratitude  should  not  stop  there,  but  that  1 
would  soon  complete  it.  The  time  is  come  for  me  to  give 
you  a  proof  of  it,  by  making  you  my  daughter-in-law.  Then 
addressing  himself  to  his  son,  he  said  to  him :  I  believe  you, 
son,  to  be  so  dutiful  a  child,  that  you  will  not  refuse  Mor- 
giana for  your  wife.  You  see  that  Cogia  Houssain  sought 
your  friendship  with  a  treacherous  design  to  take  away  my 
life ;  and,  if  he  had  succeeded,  there  is  no  doubt  but  he  would 
have  sacrificed  you  also  to  his  revenge.     Consider,  that  by 


124      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

marrying  Morgiana,  you  marry  the  support  of  my  family  and 
your  own. 

The  son,  far  from  showing  any  dislike,  readily  consented 
to  the  marriage;  not  only  because  he  would  not  disobey  his 
father,  but  that  his  inclination  prompted  him  to  it. 

After  this,  they  thought  of  burying  the  captain  of  the  rob- 
bers with  his  comrades,  and  did  it  so  privately  that  nobody 
knew  anything  of  it  till  a  great  many  years  after,  when  not 
any  one  had  any  concern  in  the  publication  of  this  remarkable 
history. 

A  few  days  afterwards,  Ali  Baba  celebrated  the  nuptials 
of  his  son  and  Morgiana  with  great  solemnity  and  a  sumptu- 
ous feast,  and  the  usual  dancing  and  spectacles ;  and  had  the 
satisfaction  to  see  that  his  friends  and  neighbours,  whom  he 
had  invited,  had  no  knowledge  of  the  true  motives  of  that 
marriage;  but  that  those  who  were  not  acquainted  with 
Morgiana's  good  qualities  commended  his  generosity  and 
goodness  of  heart. 

Ali  Baba  forbore,  a  long  time  after  this  marriage,  from 
going  again  to  the  robbers'  cave,  from  the  time  he  brought 
away  his  brother  Cassim  and  some  bags  of  gold  on  three 
asses,  for  fear  of  finding  them  there,  and  being  surprised  by 
them.  He  kept  away  after  the  death  of  the  thirty-seven  rob- 
bers and  their  captain,  supposing  the  other  two  robbers,  whom 
he  could  get  no  account  of,  might  be  alive. 

But  at  the  year's  end,  when  he  found  they  had  not  made 
any  attempt  to  disturb  him,  he  had  the  curiosity  to  make  an- 
other journey,  taking  the  necessary  precautions  for  his  safety. 
He  mounted  his  horse,  and  when  he  came  to  the  cave,  and 
saw  no  footsteps  of  men  or  horses,  he  looked  upon  it  as  a  good 
sign.  He  alighted  off  his  horse  and  tied  him  to  a  tree ;  and 
presenting  himself  before  the  door,  and  pronouncing  these 
words,  Open,  Sesame,  the  door  opened.  He  went  in,  and  by 
the  condition  he  found  things  in,  he  judged  that  nobody  had 
been  there  since  the  false  Cogia  Houssain,  when  he  fetched 
the  goods  for  his  shop,  and  that  the  gang  of  forty  robbers 
was  completely  destroyed,  and  never  doubted  he  was  the  only 
person  in  the  world  who  had  the  secret  of  opening  the  cave, 
and  that  all  the  treasure  was  solely  at  his  disposal ;  and  hav- 
ing brought  with  him  a  wallet,  into  which  he  put  as  much 
gold  as  his  horse  would  carry,  he  returned  to  town. 


THE  STORY  OF  ALI  BABA  125 

Afterwards  AH  Baba  carried  his  son  to  the  cave,  taught 
him  the  secret,  which  they  handed  down  to  their  posterity; 
and  using  their  good  fortune  with  moderation,  lived  in  great 
honour  and  splendour,  serving  the  greatest  offices  of  the  city. 


A    LIST    OF    REPRESENTATIVE    TALES    AND 
SHORT   STORIES 

VI 

1600   TO    1700: 

Dialogos  de  Apacible  Entretenimiento,  G.  L.  Hidalgo  (1610). 

Novelas  Exemplares,  Miguel  de  Cervantes  Saavedra  (1613). 

Sylvanire,  Honore  d'Urfe  (1627). 

Historiettes,  Tallemant  des  Reaux  (life:   1619-1692). 

Nouvelles  Tragi-Comiques,  Paul  Scarron  (1654). 

La  Princesse  de  Montpensier,  Mme.  de  La  Fayette  (1662). 

*Contes,  Jean  de  La  Fontaine   (1665-85). 

*  Fables,  Jean  de  La  Fontaine   (1668-94). 
Simplicianische    Schriften,    Grimmelshausen    (about    1670- 

72). 
Pentamerone,  G.  B.  Basile  (1672). 

La  Comtesse  de  Tende,  Mme.  de  La  Fayette  (after  1678). 
Oroonoko,  Aphra  Behn  (1688). 
The  Fair  Jilt,  Aphra  Behn  (1688). 

*  Contes  en  Vers,  Charles  Perrault  (1694). 

Contes  de  ma  Mere  TOye,  Charles   Perrault   (1697). 
Contes  de  Fees,  Catherine  dAulnoy  (1698). 

127 


THE   LIBERAL   LOVER 


THE  LIBERAL  LOVER 

Th^  Liberal  Lover  is  one  of  the  Exemplary  Novels, 
or  tales,  by  Miguel  de  Cervantes  Saavedra  (1547-1616), 
first  published  in  1613.  The  Exemplary  Novels,  to- 
gether with  The  Curious  Impertinent  and  The  Captive's 
Story,  both  inserted  in  Don  Quixote,  were  composed 
by  Cervantes  during  his  sojourn  in  Seville,  between  1588 
and  1603. 

The  Novels  were  received  throughout  Europe  almost 
as  favourably  as  Don  Quixote  (1605-1615)  had  been. 
They  soon  became  a  fertile  source  whence  dramatists 
and  story-tellers  could  draw  both  plots  and  dialogue. 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher  (or  rather,  the  latter  only), 
among  others,  profited  by  the  volume,  as  the  groundwork 
of  The  Chances,  Love's  Pilgrimage,  and  other  comedies 
shows.  Cervantes  himself  tells  us  that  he  resolved  to  call 
his  stories  exemplary,  because,  if  any  one  will  examine 
them,  there  is  not  one  from  which  some  useful  moral 
may  not  be  drawn.  These  tales  of  Cervantes,  howevei, 
differ  from  the  moral  tales  so  commonly  written  in  the 
eighteenth  century,  in  that  in  them  the  morality  is  not 
given  such  undue  prominence. 

As  may  be  supposed,  the  tales  are  not  all  of  equal 
merit;  The  Liberal  Lover  is  perhaps  the  best  one  of  the 
lot.  The  narrative  is  based  on  some  of  the  author's  ex- 
periences when  he  was  held  captive  by  the  Moors.  After 
Don  Quixote,  the  Exemplary  Novels  constitute  Cer- 
vantes's  chief  claim  to  immortality.  In  the  opinion  of 
some  Spanish  critics,  they  are  even  superior  to  the  famous 
romance  in  point  of  style. 

131 


132      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

The  version  of  The  Liberal  Lover  given  in  the  pres- 
ent volume  is  a  faithful  reprint  of  the  translation  by 
James  Mabbe,  published  in  London  in  1640,  a  garbled 
text  of  which  has  been  wrongly  ascribed  to  Thomas 
Shelton.  Mabbe's  version  was  published  in  London  in  a 
limited  edition  in  1900,  under  the  editorship  of  Mr.  S.  W. 
Orson,  and  his  reprint  has  been  drawn  on  for  the  present 
volume.  The  text  (says  Mr.  Orson)  has  been  carefully 
collated  with  the  original;  and,  though  the  spelling  and 
punctuation  have  been  modernised,  and  some  gross  print- 
er's blunders  corrected,  no  liberties  have  been  taken  with 
either  language  or  grammar.  Brief  notes,  on  some  pas- 
sages which  seem  to  require  explanation,  have  been  ap- 
pended. 

Mabbe's  version  is  regarded  as  a  model  of  racy  and 
flowing  English;  the  translation,  too,  has  the  supreme 
merit  of  reading  like  an  original. 

AUTHORITIES  I 

The  Life  of  Miguel  d^  Cervantes  Saavedra,  by 
James  Fitzmaurice-Kelly. 

A  History  of  Spanish  Literature,  by  George  Ticknor. 

The  Life  of  Miguel  de  Cervantes,  by  Henry  Edward 
Watts  (Great  Writers  series). 

A  History  of  Spanish  Literature,  by  James  Fitz- 
maurice-Kelly (Literatures  of  the  World  series). 


THE  LIBERAL  LOVER 

"  O  the  lamentable  ruins  of  unhappy  Nicosia !  *  the  blood 
of  thy  valiant  and  unfortunate  defenders  being  yet  scarce  dry  ! 
If  (as  thou  art  senseless  thereof)  thou  hadst  any  feeling  at 
all  in  this  desolate  and  woful  estate  wherein  now  we  are, 
we  might  jointly  bewail  our  misfortunes  and  that  wretched 
estate  and  condition  wherein  we  are;  and  happily  having  a 
companion  in  them,  it  would  help  to  ease  me  in  some  sort 
of  my  torment,  and  make  that  burden  of  my  grief  the  lighter, 
which  I  find  so  heavy — I  had  almost  said  insupportable — for 
me  to  bear.  Yet  there  is  some  hope  left  unto  thee,  that  these 
thy  strong  towers  dismantled  and  laid  level  with  the  ground, 
thou  mayst  one  day  see  them,  though  not  in  so  just  a  defence 
as  that  wherein  they  were  overthrown,  raised  to  their  former 
height  and  strength.  But  I,  of  all  unfortunate  the  most  un- 
fortunate man,  what  good  can  I  hope  for  in  that  miserable 
strait  wherein  I  find  myself,  yea,  though  I  should  return  to 
the  same  estate  and  condition  wherein  I  was  before  I  fell 
into  this?  Such  is  my  misfortune  that  when  I  was  free  and 
at  liberty  I  knew  not  what  happiness  was,  and  now  in  my 
thraldom  and  captivity  I  neither  have  it  nor  hope  it." 

These  words  did  a  Christian  captive  utter,  looking  with  a 
sad  and  heavy  countenance  from  the  rising  of  a  hill  on  the 
ruined  walls  of  the  late-lost  Nicosia;  and  thus  did  he  talk 
with  them,  and  compared  his  miseries  with  theirs,  as  if  they 
had  been  able  to  understand  him  (the  common  and  proper 
condition  of  afflicted  persons,  who  being  violently  carried 
away  with  their  own  feigned  fancies  and  imaginary  concep- 
tions, do  and  say  things  beyond  all  reason,  and  without  any 
good  discourse  and  advisement). 

Now,  whilst  he  was  thus  discoursing  with  himself,  from 
out  a  pavilion,  or  one  of  those  tents  pitched  there  in  the 

^Nicosia — a  town  of  Cyprus,  taken  by  the  Turks  in  1570. — [Ed.J 

133 


134      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

field,  not  far  from  him,  issued  out  a  Turk,  a  handsome  young 
man,  of  a  good  presence,  an  ingenious  aspect,  and  accompa- 
nied with  spirit  and  mettle  answerable  to  his  looks;  who 
drawing  near  unto  the  Christian,  without  much  ceremony, 
yet  in  a  fair  and  civil  way,  said  unto  him :  "  Sir,  I  durst  lay  a 
wager  with  you  that  those  your  pensive  thoughts  which  I 
read  in  your  face  have  brought  you  hither." 

"  You  read  aright,"  answered  Ricardo  (for  this  was  the 
captive's  name)  ;  "  they  have  brought  me  hither  indeed.  But 
what  doth  it  avail  me,  since  in  no  place  whithersoever  I  go 
I  am  so  far  from  procuring  a  peace  that  I  cannot  obtain  a 
truce  or  any  the  least  cessation  of  them  ?  Nay,  rather,  these 
ruins  which  from  hence  discover  themselves  unto  me  have 
rather  increased  my  sorrows." 

"Those  of  Nicosia,  you  mean?"  replied  the  Turk. 

"  What  other  should  I  mean  ?  "  answered  Ricardo,  "  since 
there  are  no  other  which  here  offer  themselves  to  my  view?  " 

"  You  have  great  cause,"  quoth  the  Turk,  "to  weep  if  you 
entertain  your  thoughts  with  these  and  the  like  contempla- 
tions; for  they  who  but  some  two  years  since  had  seen 
this  famous  and  rich  island  of  Cyprus  in  its  prosperity  and 
peaceable  estate,  the  inhabitants  thereof  enjoying  all  that 
human  happiness  and  felicity  which  the  Heavens  could  grant 
unto  men  or  themselves  desire,  and  now  to  see  them  banished 
out  of  it  or  made  miserable  slaves  in  it,  who  can  be  so  hard- 
hearted as  to  forbear  from  bewailing  its  calamity  and  mis- 
fortune ?  But  let  us  leave  talking  of  these  things,  since  they 
are  remediless,  and  let  us  come  to  your  own  bosom  sorrows, 
for  I  desire  to  see  if  they  be  such  as  you  voice  them  to  be; 
and  therefore  I  earnestly  entreat  and  beseech  you,  and  con- 
jure thee  by  that  which  thou  owest  to  those  good  offices  I  have 
done  thee,  the  good-will  I  bear  thee,  the  love  I  have  shown 
thee,  and  by  that  which  ought  to  oblige  thee  thereunto,  in 
that  we  are  both  of  one  and  the  same  country  and  bred  up 
in  our  childhood  together,  that  thou  wilt  deal  freely  with  me, 
and  lay  open  unto  me  what  is  the  cause  which  makes  thee  so 
exceeding  sad  and  melancholy.  For  howbeit  captivity  alone 
of  itself  be  sufficient  to  grieve  the  stoutest  heart  in  the  world 
and  to  check  its  mirth,  though  otherwise  naturally  inclined 
thereunto,  yet  notwithstanding  I  imagine  that  the  current 
of  your  disasters  hath  a  farther  reach  and  deeper  bottom: 


THE  LIBERAL  LOVER  135 

for  generous  minds  such  as  thine  is,  do  not  use  to  yield  and 
render  up  themselves  to  common  and  ordinary  misfortunes  in 
such  a  measure  as  to  make  show  of  extraordinary  sorrows; 
and  I  am  the  rather  induced  to  believe  what  I  conceive  be- 
cause I  know  that  you  are  not  so  poor  but  that  you  are  well 
enough  able  to  pay  any  reasonable  ransom  they  shall  require 
of  you,  nor  are  you  clapped  up  in  the  towers  of  the  Black  Sea 
as  a  prisoner  of  note  or  captive  of  consideration,  who  late 
or  never  obtains  his  desired  liberty,  and  therefore  your  ill 
fortune  not  having  taken  from  you  the  hope  of  seeing  your- 
self a  free  man;  and  yet  notwithstanding  all  this,  when  I 
see  thee  so  much  overcharged  with  sorrows,  and  making  such 
miserable  manifestations  of  thy  misfortunes,  it  is  not  much 
that  I  imagine  that  the  pain  proceeds  from  some  other  cause 
than  thy  lost  liberty,  which  I  entreat  thee  to  acquaint  me 
withal,  offering  thee  all  the  assistance  I  am  able  to  give  thee. 
Perhaps,  to  the  end  that  I  may  be  serviceable  unto  thee,  For- 
tune in  her  wheeling  hath  brought  this  about  that  I  should 
be  clad  in  this  habit  which  I  so  much  hate  and  abhor.  Thou 
knowest  already,  Ricardo,  that  my  master  is  Cadi  of  this 
city,  which  is  the  same  as  to  be  its  Bishop;  thou  likewise 
knowest  the  great  sway  which  he  beareth  here,  and  how 
much  I  am  able  to  do  with  him;  together  with  this,  thou  art 
not  ignorant  of  the  fervent  desire  and  inflamed  zeal  which  I 
have  not  to  die  in  this  estate  which  I  thus  seem  to  profess. 
But  God  knows  my  heart,  and  if  ever  I  should  come  to  be  put 
to  my  Vrial,  I  am  resolved  openly  to  confess  and  in  a  loud 
voice  to  publish  to  the  whole  world  the  faith  of  Jesus  Christ, 
from  which  my  few  years  and  less  understanding  separated 
me,  though  that  I  were  sure  that  such  a  confession  should 
cost  me  my  life ;  for  that  I  may  free  myself  from  losing  that 
of  my  soul,  I  should  think  the  losing  of  that  of  my  body 
very  well  employed.  Out  of  all  this  which  hath  been  said 
unto  thee,  I  leave  it  to  thyself  to  infer  the  conclusion,  and 
that  thou  wilt  take  it  into  thy  deeper  and  better  consideration 
whether  my  proffered  friendship  may  be  profitable  and  useful 
unto  thee.  Now  that  I  may  know  what  remedies  thy  misfor- 
tune requires,  and  what  medicines  I  may  apply  both  for  the 
easing  and  curing  of  it,  it  is  requisite  that  thou  recount  it 
unto  me,  the  relation  thereof  being  as  necessary  for  me  as 
that  of  the  rich  patient  to  his  physician;  assuring  thee,  in 


136      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

the  faith  of  a  friend,  that  thou  shalt  deposit  it  in  the  deepest 
and  darkest  den  of  silence,  never  to  come  to  light." 

To  all  these  words  of  his  Ricardo  gave  an  attentive  ear, 
though  his  tongue  were  silent;  but  seeing  himself  obliged  by 
them  and  his  own  necessity,  returned  him  thereunto  this 
answer:  "  If  as  thou  hast  hit  the  right  vein,  O  my  dear  friend 
Mahamut  [for  so  was  this  Turk  called],  touching  that 
which  thou  imaginest  of  my  misfortune,  thou  couldst  hit  as 
right  upon  its  remedy,  I  should  hold  myself  happy  in  my  lost 
liberty,  and  would  not  change  my  unhappiness  for  the  greatest 
happiness  that  may  be  imagined.  But  I  wot  well  that  it  is 
such  that  all  the  world  may  take  notice  of  the  cause  whence  it 
proceedeth,  but  that  man  cannot  therein  be  found  which  dare 
undertake  not  only  the  finding  out  of  any  remedy  for  it,  but 
of  giving  it  any  the  least  ease ;  and  to  the  end  that  thou 
mayst  rest  thyself  thoroughly  satisfied  of  the  truth  thereof, 
I  will  relate  the  same  unto  thee  as  briefly  and  compendiously 
as  I  can,  shutting  much  in  a  few  words.  But  before  I 
enter  into  this  confused  labyrinth  of  my  miseries,  I  would 
first  have  thee  to  recount  unto  me  what  is  the  cause  why 
Azam  Bashaw,  my  master,  hath  pitched  here  in  this  field  these 
tents  and  pavilions  before  he  maketh  his  entry  into  Nicosia, 
being  deputed  (and  to  that  purpose  bringing  his  provision 
with  him)  to  be  Viceroy  there,  or  Bashaw,  the  usual  style 
or  title  which  the  Turks  give  their  Viceroys." 

"  I  will,"  answered  Mahamut,  "  answer  your  demand  in  a 
few  words,  and  therefore  would  have  you  to  know  that  it  is  a 
custom  amongst  the  Turks  that  they  who  come  to  be  Viceroys 
of  some  province  do  not  instantly  enter  into  the  city  where 
their  predecessor  resideth,  till  he  issueth  out  of  it,  and  leave 
the  residence  freely  to  his  successors.  Now,  when  the  new 
Bashaw  hath  made  his  entrance,  the  old  one  stays  without  in 
the  field,  expecting  what  accusations  shall  come  against  him, 
and  what  misdemeanours  during  his  government  they  shall 
lay  to  his  charge,  which  being  alleged  and  proved,  are  re- 
corded and  a  note  taken  of  them,  all  possibility  being  taken 
away  from  him  of  interviewing,  either  to  help  himself  by 
suborning  of  witnesses,  or  by  his  friends,  unless  he  have 
made  his  way  beforehand,  for  the  clearing  of  himself.  Now, 
the  other  being  settled  in  his  residency,  there  is  given  by  him 
to  him  that  leaves  his  charge,  a  scroll  of  parchment  sealed 


THE  LIBERAL   LOVER  137 

Up  very  close,  and  therewith  he  presents  himself  at  the  gate 
of  the  Grand  Signior — that  is  to  say,  in  the  court  before  the 
Grand  Council  of  the  Great  Turk;  which  being  seen  and 
perused  by  the  Visir-Bashaw,  and  by  those  other  four  inferior 
Bashaws,  they  either  reward  or  punish  him  according  to  the 
relation  that  is  made  of  his  residency.  In  case  that  he  come 
home  faulty,  with  money  he  redeems  and  excuseth  his  punish- 
ment; but  if  faultless,  and  they  do  not  reward  him — as  com- 
monly it  falleth  out — with  gifts  and  presents,  he  procureth 
that  chaVge  which  himself  most  affecteth ;  for  places  of  com- 
mand and  offices  are  not  given  for  merit,  but  for  money; 
all  is  sold,  and  all  bought.  They  who  have  the  provision,  or, 
as  we  style  it,  commission  and  authority  for  the  conferring  of 
charges  and  offices,  rob  those  which  are  to  have  these  offices 
and  charges,  and  fleece  them  as  near  as  the  shears  can  go; 
and  they,  again,  out  of  this  their  bought  office  gather  wealth 
and  substance  for  to  buy  another  which  promiseth  much  more 
gain.  All  goes  as  I  tell  you;  all  this  empire  is  violent^ — a 
sign  that  it  will  not  last  long.  For  that  reason,  then,  that  I 
have  rendered  thee,  thy  master  Azam  Bashaw  hath  remained 
in  this  field  four  days ;  and  he  of  Nicosia,  that  he  hath  not  as 
yet  come  forth  as  he  ought  to  have  done,  the  cause  is  that 
he  hath  been  very  sick,  but  is  now  upon  the  mending  hand, 
and  will  without  fail  come  forth  either  to-day  or  to-morrow 
at  the  farthest,  and  is  to  lodge  in  certain  tents  which  are 
pitched  behind  this  rising  hill,  which  as  yet  thou  hast  not 
seen ;  and  thy  master  is  forthwith  to  enter  into  the  city.  And 
having  made  this  already  delivered  known  unto  thee  is  all 
the  satisfaction  that  I  can  give  to  your  propounded  demand." 
"  Listen  then  unto  me,"  replied  Ricardo ;  "  but  I  know  not 
whether  I  shall  be  as  good  as  my  word  in  complying  with  that 
which  I  formerly  promised,  that  I  would  in  a  few  words  re- 
count unto  you  my  misfortunes,  they  being  so  large  that  to 
make  up  the  full  measure  of  them  I  want  words  enough  to 
do  it ;  yet  notwithstanding  I  will  do  herein  what  may  be,  and 
as  time  and  your  patience  will  permit.  But  let  me  first  of  all 
ask  you  if  you  know  in  our  town  of  Trapana  a  damosel 
to  whom  fame  hath  given  the  name  of  the  fairest  woman 

M//  this  empire  is  violent— xXidil  is,  ruled  not  by  justice  but  by 
force. — [Ed-I 
10 


138       THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

in  all  Sicily,  in  whose  praise  all  curious  tongues  have  spent 
themselves,  and  of  whom  the  rarest  judgments  have  ratified 
that  she  was  the  perfectest  piece  of  beauty  that  the  past  age 
had,  the  present  hath,  and  that  which  is  to  come  can  hope 
to  have;  one  of  whom  the  poets  sang  that  her  hairs  were 
golden  wires,  her  eyes  two  resplendent  suns,  and  her  cheeks 
pure  damask  roses,  her  teeth  pearls,  her  lips  rubies,  her  neck 
alabaster,  and  that  her  parts  with  the  whole  frame,  and  the 
whole  with  her  parts,  made  up  a  most  pleasing  harmony  and 
most  harmonious  concord.  Nature  spreading  over  the  whole 
composure  such  a  sweet  delightfulness  of  colours,  so  natural 
and  so  perfect,  that  envy  itself  cannot  tax  her  in  any  one 
particular.  And  is  it  possible,  Mahamut,  that  all  this  while 
thou  hast  not  told  me  yet  who  she  is,  and  by  what  name  she 
is  called?  I  undoubtedly  believe  that  either  thou  dost  not 
hear  me,  or  that  when  thou  wast  in  Trapana  thou  didst  want 
thy  senses." 

Mahamut  hereunto  answered:  "That  if  she  whom  thou 
hast  set  forth  with  such  extremes  of  beauty  be  not  Leonisa, 
the  daughter  of  Rodolphus  Florencius,  I  know  not  who  she  is ; 
for  she  alone  had  that  fame  which  you  speak  of." 

"  This  is  she,  O  Mahamut,"  replied  Ricardo;  "  this  is  she, 
O  my  dear  friend,  who  is  the  principal  cause  of  all  my  felicity 
and  of  all  my  misfortune.  This  is  she,  and  not  my  lost  lib- 
erty, for  whom  mine  eyes  have,  do,  and  shall  shed  tears  not 
to  be  numbered ;  this  is  she  for  whom  my  heart-burning  sighs 
inflame  the  air  far  and  near;  and  this  is  she  for  whom  my 
words  weary  Heaven  which  hears  them,  and  the  ears  of  those 
which  hearken  unto  them.  This  is  she  for  whom  thou  tookest 
me  to  be  mad,  or  at  least  for  a  man  of  small  worth  and  less 
courage.  This  Leonisa,  to  me  a  lioness,  and  to  another  a 
meek  and  gentle  lamb,  is  she  which  holds  me  in  this  wretched 
and  miserable  estate ;  for  I  must  give  thee  to  understand  that 
from  my  tender  years,  or  at  least  ever  since  I  had  the  use  of 
reason,  I  did  not  only  love  but  adore  her,  and  did  serve  her 
with  such  solicitude  and  devotion  as  if  neither  on  earth  nor 
in  heaven  there  were  any  other  deity  for  me  to  serve  and 
adore  save  herself.  Her  kinsfolk  and  parents  knew  my  de- 
sires, considering  withal  that  they  were  directed  to  an  honest 
and  virtuous  end;  and  that  therefore,  many  a  time  and  oft, 
which  escaped  not  my  knowledge,  they  acquainted  Leonisa 


THE  LIBERAL  LOVER  139 

with  the  fervent  love  and  affection  I  bare  unto  her,  for  the 
better  disposing  of  her  will  to  accept  me  for  her  husband. 
But  she,  who  had  placed  her  eyes  on  Cornelio,  the  son  of 
Ascanio  Rotulo  (whom  you  know  very  well,  a  young  gallant, 
neat  and  spruce,  with  white  hands  and  curled  hairs,  having  a 
mellifluous  voice,  and  amorous  words  at  will,  and  in  a  word, 
being  all  made  of  amber,  musk,  and  civet,  clad  in  tissue, 
adorned  with  rich  embroideries),  would  not  vouchsafe  to  cast 
so  much  as  one  glance  of  her  eye  on  my  countenance,  which 
was  not  So  dehcate  as  that  of  Cornelio,  neither  would  enter- 
tain, notwithstanding  my  best  endeavours  to  please  her,  with 
thankfulness  my  many  and  continual  services,  requiting  my 
good-will  with  disdain  and  hatred.  And  to  such  extremes 
did  the  excess  of  my  love  bring  me,  that  I  should  have  held 
myself  happy  had  her  disdains  and  unkindnesses  killed  me 
outright,  that  I  might  not  have  lived  to  have  seen  her  confer 
such  open  though  honest  favours  on  Cornelio.  Consider  now, 
being  anguished  with  disdain  and  hatred,  and  almost  mad  with 
the  cruel  rage  of  jealousy,  in  what  miserable  case  you  may 
imagine  my  soul  was,  two  such  mortal  plagues  reigning 
therein.  Leonisa's  parents  dissembled  those  favours  which 
she  did  to  Cornelio,  believing,  as  they  had  good  reason  to 
believe  it,  that  the  young  man,  attracted  by  her  most  exquisite 
and  incomparable  beauty,  which  none  could  match  but  her 
own,  would  make  choice  of  her  for  his  spouse,  and  so  in  him 
gain  a  richer  son-in-law  than  in  me :  and  well,  if  he  were  so, 
might  he  be  so.  But  I  dare  be  bold  to  say,  without  arrogancy 
be  it  spoken,  that  as  good  blood  runs  in  my  veins  as  his,  my 
quality  and  condition  nothing  inferior  to  his;  and  for  his 
mind,  it  cannot  be  more  noble  than  mine,  nor  his  valour  go 
beyond  mine.  But  that  indeed  which  did  overbalance  me  was 
Leonisa's  favour  and  her  parents'  furthering  the  business, 
and  this  only  made  the  scales  uneven  by  their  inclining  to 
Cornelio.  Now  it  so  fell  out,  that  persisting  in  the  pursuit 
of  my  pretensions,  it  came  to  my  knowledge  that  one  day  in 
the  month  of  May  last  past,  which  this  very  day  makes  up 
a  year,  three  days,  and  five  hours,  Leonisa,  her  parents,  and 
Cornelio  and  some  friends  of  his,  went  to  solace  themselves, 
accompanied  with  their  kindred  and  servants,  to  Ascanio 
his  garden,  near  adjoining  to  the  seaside,  in  the  way  that 
leads  to  the  salt-pits." 


UO      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

"  1  know  that  place  passing  well,"  said  Mahamut ;  "  go 
on,  Ricardo.  I  was  more  than  four  days  in  one  of  them;  I 
could  have  wished  I  had  been  there  but  four  minutes." 

"  I  knew  that,"  replied  Ricardo,  "  and  in  that  very  instant 
that  I  knew  it  my  soul  was  possessed  with  such  a  fury,  such 
a  rage,  and  such  a  hell  of  jealousies,  and  with  that  vehemency 
and  rigour,  that  it  bereaved  me  of  my  senses,  as  thou  shalt 
plainly  see,  by  that  which  I  presently  did,  which  was  this: 
I  hied  me  to  the  garden  where  I  was  told  they  were,  where 
I  found  most  of  the  company  solacing  themselves,  and  Cor- 
nelio  and  Leonisa  sitting  under  a  walnut-tree,  somewhat  out 
of  the  way  from  the  rest.  How  my  sight  pleased  them  I  do 
not  know,  but  know,  to  say  so  much  of  myself,  that  her  sight 
wrought  so  upon  me  that  I  lost  the  sight  of  mine  own  eyes, 
and  stood  stock  still  like  a  statua,  without  either  voice  or  mo- 
tion. But  T  continued  not  long  so  before  that  my  anger 
awakened  my  choler,  choler  heated  my  blood,  my  blood  in- 
flamed rage,  and  rage  gave  motion  to  my  hands  and  tongue. 
Howbeit  my  hands  were  bound  by  the  respect  which,  me- 
thought,  was  due  to  that  fair  face  which  I  had  before  me;, 
but  my  tongue  breaking  silence,  vented  forth  these  words: 
*  How  canst  thou  find  in  thy  heart,  how  give  thyself  content, 
O  ihou  mortal  enemy  of  my  rest!  in  having  (and  therein 
taking  so  much  pleasure)  before  thine  eyes  the  cause  which 
must  make  mine  to  overflow  with  rivers  of  tears,  and  by  my 
continual  weeping  become  another  deluge?  Come,  come — 
cruel  as  thou  art ! — a  little  nearer,  and  wreathe  thy  twining 
ivy  about  this  unprofitable  trunk,  which  woos  thy  embracings. 
Let  him  lay  his  head  in  thy  lap,  and  let  thy  fingers  learn  to 
play  with  those  braided  locks  of  this  thy  new  Ganymede. 
What  thou  wilt  do,  do  quickly ;  make  an  end  at  once  of  deliv- 
ering up  the  possession  of  thyself  to  the  green  and  ungoverned 
years  of  this  your  minion,  to  the  end  that  I,  losing  all  hope 
of  obtaining  thee,  may  together  with  that  end  this  my  life,  so 
much  by  me  abhorred.  Thinkest  thou,  peradventure,  thou 
proud  and  ill-advised  damosel !  that  this  young  princox,  pre- 
sumptuous by  reason  of  his  riches,  arrogant  by  your  gracing 
of  him,  unexperienced  in  that  he  is  too  young,  and  insolent 
by  his  relying  on  his  lineage,  will  love  as  he  ought,  and  you 
deserve  ?  No,  he  cannot ;  no,  he  knows  not  how  to  love  con- 
stantly, nor  to  esteem  that  which  is  inestimable,  nor  come 


THE   LIBERAL  LOVER  141 

to  have  that  understanding  and  knowledge  which  accom- 
panies ripe  and  experimented  years.  If  you  think  so,  do  not 
think  it;  for  the  world  hath  no  other  good  thing  save  the 
doing  of  its' actions  always  after  one  and  the  same  manner; 
for  none  are  deceived  but  by  their  own  ignorance.  In  young 
men  there  is  much  inconstancy;  in  rich,  pride;  vanity  in  the 
arrogant;  in  the  beautiful,  disdain;  and  in  those  that  have  all 
these,  foolishness,  which  is  the  mother  of  all  ill  success. 
And  thou,  O  young  gallant !  art  such  a  one  who  thinkest  to 
carry  aH^before  thee,  and  to  go  clear  away  with  that  reward 
which  is  more  due  to  my  good  desires  than  thy  idle  protesta- 
tions. Why  dost  thou  not  arise  from  that  carpet  of  flowers 
whereon  thou  liest,  and  come  to  take  this  my  soul  from  me, 
which  so  deadly  hateth  thine?  Not  because  thou  offendest 
me  in  that  which  thou  doest,  but  because  thou  knowest  not 
how  to  esteem  that  good  which  fortune  gives  thee;  and 
it  is  clear  and  evident  that  thou  makest  little  reckoning  of 
it,  since  thou  wilt  not  rise  up  to  defend  it,  that  thou  mayest 
not  put  thyself  to  the  hazard  of  discomposing  that  painted 
composure  of  thy  gay  clothes.  If  Achilles  had  had  thy  re- 
posed condition,  or  been  of  thy  cold  temper,  Ulysses  might 
very  well  hav^  been  assured  that  he  would  not  have  gone 
through  with  that  which  he  undertook.  Go,  get  thee  gone, 
and  sport  thyself  amongst  thy  mother's  maids,  and  there  have 
a  care  of  kembing  and  curling  thy  locks,  and  keeping  thy 
hands  clean  and  white;  thou  art  fitter  to  handle  soft  silks 
than  a  hard-hilted  sword.'  All  these  words  could  not  move 
Cornelio  to  rise  from  the  place  where  I  found  him,  but  sate 
him  still,  looking  upon  me  as  one  aghast,  not  once  offering 
to  stir.  But  the  voice  wherewith  I  uttered  these  words  which 
you  have  heard  occasioned  the  people  which  were  walking 
in  the  garden  to  draw  nearer,  stood  a  little  while  listening, 
hearing  many  other  disgraceful  speeches  which  I  gave  him, 
and  thereupon  made  in ;  who,  taking  courage  by  their  coming 
(for  all  or  most  of  them  were  his  kinsfolk,  servants,  or 
friends),  he  made  show  of  rising;  but  before  he  was  fully 
upon  his  feet  I  laid  hand  on  my  sword,  drew  it,  and  did 
set  not  only  upon  him,  but  on  as  many  as  were  there.  Leonisa 
no  sooner  saw  my  glittering  sword  but  she  fell  into  a  deadly 
swound,  which  did  put  greater  courage  into  me,  and  stir  up 
greater  despite;  and  I  cannot  say  whether  those  so  many 


142      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

which  did  set  upon  me  sought  only  to  defend  themselves, 
as  we  see  men  usually  do  against  a  furious  madman,  or 
whether^ it  were  my  good  fortune  and  diligence,  or  Heaven's 
disposing,  to  expose  me  to  greater  evils,  and  to  reserve  me  to 
further  miseries;  in  conclusion,  I  wounded  seven  or  eight 
of  them  which  came  next  to  my  hand.  Cornelio  betook  him- 
self to  his  heels,  and  by  his  swift  flight  escaped  my  hands. 
Being  in  this  so  manifest  a  danger  hemmed  in  by  my  enemies, 
who  now,  seeing  their  blood  run  from  them,  and  enraged 
with  the  wrong  which  they  had  received,  sought  to  revenge 
themselves  upon  me,  lo !  Fortune  provided  a  remedy  for  this 
mischief,  but  such  a  one  as  was  worse  than  the  disease;  for 
better  had  it  been  for  me  there  to  have  left  my  life,  than  in 
restoring  it  me  by  so  strange  and  unexpected  a  means,  to  come 
to  lose  it  every  hour  a  thousand  and  a  thousand  times  over 
and  over.  And  this  it  was,  that  on  the  sudden  there  rushed 
into  the  garden  a  great  number  of  Turks,  pirates  of  Biserta, 
who  with  two  galleys  had  put  into  a  little  creek  of  the  sea 
between  two  rocks  hard  by  the  shore,  where  they  disembarked 
themselves  without  being  heard  or  seen  by  the  sentinels  of  the 
watch-towers,  nor  discovered  by  those  scouts  whose  daily 
office  it  was  to  scour  the  coasts  and  see  that  all  was  clear. 
When  my  adversaries  had  espied  them,  leaving  me  alone, 
they,  with  the  rest  in  the  garden,  ran  their  way  as  fast  as 
their  legs  would  carry  them,  and  shifted  so  well  for  them- 
selves that  they  had  got  themselves  out  of  their  danger  and 
put  themselves  in  safety;  so  that  of  all  the  whole  companies 
the  Turks  took  no  more  captives  but  three  persons  besides 
Leonisa,  who  lay  there  still  in  a  swound.  They  took  me 
after  they  had  shrewdly  wounded  me  in  four  several  places, 
revenged  before  by  me  on  four  Turks  whom  I  left  dead  in 
the  place.  This  assault  ended,  the  Turks  with  their  accus- 
tomed diligence,  and  not  being  very  well  pleased  with  the 
success,  made  haste  to  embark  themselves,  and  presently 
put  farther  to  sea,  so  that  what  with  their  sails  and  help  of 
their  oars,  in  a  short  space  they  recovered  Fabiana,  where 
they  mustered  their  men,  and  finding  that  the  slain  were  four 
soldiers,  Levant-men,  as  they  call  them,  being  of  the  best  and 
choicest  and  of  most  esteem  amongst  them,  they  were  the 
more  willing  and  desirous  to  take  their  revenge  of  me,  and 
therefore  the  admiral  of  the  captain-galley  commanded  them 


THE   LIBERAL  LOVER  143 

to  hang  me  up  on  the  mainyard.  All  this  while  Leonisa  stood 
looking  on  this  speedy  preparation  for  my  death  (who  was 
now  come  again  to  herself),  and  seeing  me  in  the  power  of 
these  pirates,  the  tears  trickled  down  in  great  abundance 
from  her  beauteous  eyes,  and  wringing  her  soft  and  delicate 
hands,  not  speaking  so  much  as  one  word,  gave  diligent  ear 
and  was  very  attentive  to  hear  if  she  could  understand  what 
the  Turks  said.  But  one  of  the  Christian  slaves  that  was 
chained  to  the  oar  spake  to  her  in  Italian,  giving  her  to 
understand  how  that  the  captain  had  given  order  to  have  that 
Christian  hanged  up  (pointing  unto  me),  because  I  had  slain 
in  her  defence  four  of  the  best  soldiers  belonging  to  his  gal- 
leys; which  being  heard  and  understood  by  Leonisa  (being 
the  first  time  that  ever  she  showed  herself  pitiful  towards 
me),  she  willed  the  said  slave  that  he  should  speak  unto  the 
Turks  to  spare  his  life,  and  not  to  hang  him,  for  in  so  doing 
they  would  lose  a  great  ransom,  and  that  he  should  advise 
them  to  tack  about  and  make  again  for  Trapana,  where  his 
ransom  would  presently  be  brought  aboard  unto  them.  This, 
I  say,  was  the  first  and  the  last  kindness  which  Leonisa  used 
towards  me,  and  all  this  for  my  greater  ill.  The  Turks  hear- 
ing what  their  captive  told  them,  did  easily  believe  him,  and 
this  their  hope  of  profit  turned  the  course  of  their  choler.  The 
very  next  morning,  hanging  out  a  flag  of  peace,  they  an- 
chored before  Trapana.  That  night  thou  mayst  better  con- 
ceive than  I  utter  with  what  a  deal  of  grief  I  passed  it  over, 
not  so  much  for  my  wounds'  sake,  though  they  were  very  sore 
and  painful,  as  to  think  on  the  peril  wherein  my  cruel  enemy 
was  amongst  these  barbarous  people.  Being  come  now,  as  I 
told  thee,  to  the  city,  one  of  the  galleys  entered  the  haven,  the 
other  stood  off.  All  the  citizens  flocked  to  the  seaside,  the 
Christians  standing  as  thick  one  by  another  as  the  shore 
would  give  them  leave.  And  that  carpet-knight  ^  Cornelio 
stood  afar  off  observing  what  passed  in  the  galley  whilst  my 
steward  was  treating  of  my  ransom;  to  whom  I  had  given 
order  that  he  should  in  no  wise  treat  of  my  liberty,  but  of 
that  of  Leonisa,  and  that  he  should  give  for  the  freeing  of 

*  Carpet-knight — one  knighted  at  court  as  a  favourite,  not  on  ac- 
count of  valour  in  the  field.  See  Twelfth  Night,  iii.  4,  257  ;  and 
Fairfax's  Tasso,  xvi.  32.— [Ed.] 


144      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

her  all  whatsoever  I  was  worth  either  in  lands  or  goods; 
and  I  willed  him,  moreover,  that  he  should  go  ashore  and  tell 
Leonisa's  parents  that  they  should  leave  it  to  him  to  treat 
of  their  daughter's  liberty.  This  being  done,  the  chief  cap- 
tain, who  was  a  Grecian,  but  a  renegado,  his  name  Ysuph, 
demanded  for  Leonisa  six  thousand  crowns,  and  for  myself 
four  thousand,  and  that  he  would  not  sell  the  one  without 
the  other ;  setting  this  so  great  a  price,  as  I  was  given  after- 
wards to  understand,  because  he  was  enamoured  of  Leonisa, 
and  was  therefore  unwilling  she  should  be  redeemed;  pur- 
posing to  give  to  the  captain  of  the  other  galley,  with  whom 
he  was  to  share  the  one  half  of  the  prize,  myself  at  the  rate 
of  four  thousand  crowns  in  ready  money,  and  one  thousand 
more  in  other  commodities,  which  made  up  five  thousand, 
prizing  Leonisa  at  other  five  thousand ;  and  this  was  the  rea- 
son why  he  rated  us  two  in  ten  thousand  crowns.  Leonisa's 
parents  offered  him  nothing  on  their  part,  relying  on  the 
promise  which  on  my  part  my  steward  had  made  them; 
neither  did  Cornelio  so  much  z^s  once  open  his  lips  to  offer 
anything  towards  her  ransom;  and  so,  after  many  demands 
and  answers,  my  steward  concluded  the  business  with  giving 
for  Leonisa  five  thousand  and  for  me  three  thousand  crowns. 
Ysuph  accepted  this  offer,  forced  thereunto  by  the  persuasions 
of  his  companion  and  all  the  rest  of  their  soldiers.  But  be- 
cause my  steward  had  not  so  much  money  in  cash,  he  en- 
treated only  three  days'  time  to  make  up  the  full  sum,  with 
intention  to  sell  my  goods  under  hand  and  at  a  cheap  rate, 
till  he  had  got  so  much  together  as  would  pay  the  ransom. 
Ysuph  was  glad  of  this,  thinking  with  himself  in  the  mean- 
while to  find  some  occasion  that  the  bargain  might  not  go 
forward ;  and  so  returning  back  again  to  the  island  of  Fabi- 
ana,  he  said  that  by  that  time  the  three  days  were  expired 
he  would  not  fail  to  be  there  with  them  to  receive  the  money 
according  to  the  agreement.  But  spiteful  and  ungrateful 
Fortune,  not  yet  wearied  out  with  ill-entreating  me,  had  so 
ordained  it  that  a  galley's  boy,  who  sate  on  the  top  of  the 
mast  as  the  Turks'  sentinel,  discovered  afar  off  at  sea  six 
Italian  galleys,  and  did  guess  (which  was  true)  that  they 
were  either  of  Malta  or  Sicily.  He  came  running  down  with 
all  the  haste  he  could  to  give  them  news  thereof,  and  in  a 
trice  the  Turks  embarked  themselves  who  were  ashore,  some 


THE  LIBERAL  LOVER  145 

dressing  their  dinner,  some  washing  their  Hnen,  and  weighing 
anchor  in  an  instant,  hoisting  sail  and  working  hard  with 
their  oars,  turning  their  prows  towards  Barbary,  in  less  than 
two  hours  they  lost  the  sight  of  those  galleys,  and  so  being 
shadowed  with  the  island,  and  covered  from  ken  by  the  ap- 
proaching night,  they  were  secured  from  that  fear  which 
affrighted  them.  Now  I  leave  it  to  thy  good  consideration, 
my  friend  Mahamut,  how  much  my  mind  was  troubled  in  this 
voyage,  finding  it  to  fall  out  so  cross  and  contrary  to  that 
which  I  expected ;  and  much  more  when,  the  next  day,  the 
two  galleys  reaching  the  island  of  Pantanalea  on  the  south 
part,  the  Turks  went  ashore  to  get  them  wood  and  fresh  vict- 
uals; but  most  of  all,  when  I  saw  both  the  captains  land, 
and  fell  to  sharing  between  them  in  equal  proportion  all 
those  prizes  they  had  taken,  each  action  of  these  was  to  me 
a  delayed  death.  Coming  then  at  last  to  the  dividing  of  my- 
self and  Leonisa,  Ysuph  gave  to  Fetala  (for  so  was  that 
captain  of  the  other  galley  called)  six  Christians,  four  for 
the  oar,  and  two  very  beautiful  boys,  both  naturals  of  Corso,^ 
and  myself  likewise  with  them,  that  he  might  have  Leonisa 
for  himself;  wherewith  Fetala  rested  very  well  contented. 
And  albeit  I  were  present  at  all  this,  I  could  not  understand 
what  they  said,  though  I  knew  what  they  did;  neither  had  I 
known  then  the  manner  of  their  sharings  if  Fetala  had  not 
come  unto  me  and  told  me  in  Italian :  'Christian,  thou  art  now 
mine,  and  put  into  my  hands  as  my  captive,  thou  being  rated 
at  two  thousand  crowns;  if  thou  wilt  have  thy  liberty,  thou 
must  give  me  four  thousand,  or  resolve  here  to  end  thy  days.' 
I  then  demanded  of  him  whether  the  Christian  damosel  were 
his  too;  he  told  me  no,  but  that  Ysuph  kept  her  for  himself, 
with  intention  to  make  her  turn  Moor  and  then  marry  her. 
And  therein  he  said  true,  for  one  of  the  galley-slaves  told  me 
that  sate  chained  on  his  bank  at  his  oar,  and  understood  very 
well  the  Turkish  language,  that  he  overheard  Ysuph  and 
Fetala  treating  thereof.  Whereupon  I  came  to  my  master 
and  told  him:  *  Sir,  if  you  will  bring  the  business  so  about 
that  the  Christian  damosel  may  become  your  captive,  I  will 
give  you  ten  thousand  crowns  in  good  gold  for  her  ransom.' 
He  replied :  *  It  is  not  possible,  but  I  will  acquaint  Ysuph 

1  Corso — Corsica. — [Ed.] 


14^      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

with  this  great  sum  which  thou  offerest  for  her  freedom,  and 
perhaps,  weighing  the  profit  he  shall  reap  thereby,  he  will 
alter  his  purpose,  and  accept  of  the  ransom.'  He  did  so ;  and 
then  presently  commanded  all  those  of  his  own  galley  to 
embark  themselves  as  soon  as  possibly  they  could,  because 
he  would  go  for  Tripoli  in  Barbary,  whence  he  was.  And 
Ysuph  likewise  determined  to  go  for  Biserta,  and  so  embarked 
with  the  selfsame  haste  as  they  use  to  do  when  they  ken  either 
galleys  which  they  fear  or  vessels  which  they  mind  to  rob; 
and  that  which  moved  them  to  make  the  more  haste  was  that 
they  saw  the  weather  began  to  change,  with  manifest  signs 
of  a  storm.  Leonisa  was  on  land,  but  not  there  where  I  might 
see  her,  save  only  at  the  time  of  her  embarking,  where  we 
both  met  at  the  seaside.  This  her  new  lover  led  her  by  the 
hand,  and  setting  her  foot  upon  the  plank  which  reached 
from  the  land  to  the  galley,  she  turned  back  her  eyes  to  look 
upon  me,  and  mine,  which  never  were  off  from  her,  looked 
wishly  on  her,  but  with  such  tenderness,  that  without  knowing 
how  such  a  cloud  was  cast  before  them,  that  it  took  away  my 
eyesight,  and  being  robbed  of  it  and  of  my  senses,  I  fell  in  a 
swound  to  the  ground.  The  like  they  afterwards  told  me 
befell  Leonisa ;  for  they  saw  her  fall  from  the  plank  into  the 
sea,  and  that  Ysuph  leapt  in  after  her,  and  brought  her 
out  thence  in  his  arms.  This  was  told  me  by  those  of  my 
master's  galley,  whereinto  they  had  put  me,  I  not  knowing 
how  I  came  there.  But  when  I  came  again  to  myself,  and 
saw  myself  alone  in  that  galley,  and  the  other  steering  a  con- 
trary course  and  gone  clean  out  of  sight  from  us,  carrying 
away  with  them  the  one  half  of  my  soul,  or,  to  say  better, 
all  of  it,  my  heart  was  clouded  anew,  and  I  began  anew  to 
curse  my  misfortune,  and  called  out  aloud  for  death.  And 
such  and  so  great  was  the  moan  and  lamentation  I  made, 
that  my  master's  ears  being  offended  therewith,  threatened 
with  a  great  cudgel  that  if  I  did  not  hold  my  peace  he  would 
severely  punish  me;  whereupon  I  repressed  my  tears  and 
smothered  my  sighs,  thinking  that  the  violent  restraining  of 
them  would  break  out  the  more  forcibly  in  some  one  part  or 
other,  and  open  a  door  to  l.et  my  soul  out,  which  I  so  earnestly 
desired  might  relinquish  this  my  miserable  body.  But 
froward  Fortune  not  contenting  herself  to  have  put  me  into 
this  so  narrow  a  strait,  topk  a  course  to  overthrow  all  by 


THE  LIBERAL  LOVER  M7 

taking  from  me  all  hope  of  remedy;  for  in  an  instant  the 
storm  we  so  much  feared  overtook  us,  and  the  wind,  which 
blew  strongly  from  the  south,  blew  full  in  the  teeth  of  us,  and 
began  with  such  fury  to  reinforce  itself  that  we  were  forced 
to  tack  about,  putting  the  prow  in  the  poop's  place,  suffering 
our  galley  to  go  which  way  the  wind  would  carry  her.  Our 
captain's  design  was,  by  fetching  of  boards,^  to  have  put  into 
some  part  of  the  island  for  shelter,  and  more  particularly  on 
the  north^part  thereof;  but  it  fell  not  out  answerably  to  his 
expectation,  but  rather  quite  contrary  to  what  he  had  de- 
signed ;  for  the  wind  charged  us  with  such  impetuousness  that 
[despite]  all  that  which  we  had  sailed  in  two  days,  within 
little  more  than  fourteen  hours  we  saw  ourselves  within  two 
leagues  or  thereabout  of  the  same  island  from  whence  he  had 
put  forth ;  and  now  there  was  no  remedy  for  hindering  our 
being  driven  upon  it^  and  not  to  run  ourselves  upon  some 
sandy  shore,  but  amongst  very  high  rocks,  which  presented 
themselves  to  our  view,  threatening  inevitable  death  to  our 
lives.  We  saw  on  the  one  side  of  us  that  other  our  fellow- 
galley  wherein  was  Leonisa,  and  all  their  Turks,  and  captive- 
rowers  labouring  hard  with  their  oars  to  keep  themselves  off 
as  well  as  they  could  from  running  upon  the  rocks.  The  like 
did  we  in  ours,  but  with  better  success  it  should  seem,  and 
greater  force  and  strength  than  the  other,  who,  being  tired 
out  with  their  travail,  and  overcome  by  the  stiffness  of  the 
wind  and  blustering  storm,  forsaking  their  oars,  and  with 
them  abandoning  themselves,  they  suffered  themselves,  we 
looking  upon  them,  to  fall  amongst  the  rocks,  against  which 
the  galley  dashing  itself,  was  split  in  a  thousand  pieces. 
Night  was  then  drawing  on,  and  so  great  was  the  cry  of  those 
that  gave  themselves  for  lost,  and  the  fright  of  those  who 
in  our  vessel  feared  to  be  lost,  that  not  any  one  of  those  many 
things  which  our  captain  commanded  was  either  understood 
or  done  by  them;  only  they  did  attend  the  not  foregoing  of 
their  oars,  plying  them  still,  holding  it  for  their  best  remedy 
to  turn  the  prow  to  the  wind  and  to  cast  two  anchors  into  the 
sea,  to  keep  off  death  for  a  while,  which  they  held  to  be  cer- 
tain.    And  although  the  fear  of  dying  was  general  in  all  of 

'  Fetching  of  boards — tacking  to  and  fro.     Cf.  the  word  starboard^ 
etc.— [Ed.1 


14^      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

them,  yet  in  me  was  it  quite  contrary ;  for,  fed  with  the  de* 
ceitful  hope  of  seeing  her  in  that  other  world  who  was  so 
lately  departed  out  of  this,  every  minute  that  the  galley  de- 
ferred its  drowning  or  splitting  against  the  rocks  was  to  me 
an  age  of  a  more  painful  death.  The  high-swollen  waves 
which  passed  over  the  top  of  our  weather-beaten  vessel  and 
my  head  made  me  very  watchful  to  see  whether  or  no  I  could 
espy  floating  upon  those  crump-shouldered  billows  the  body 
of  unfortunate  Leonisa.  But  I  will  not  detain  myself  now, 
O  Mahamut,  in  recounting  unto  thee  piece  by  piece  the  pas- 
sions, the  fears,  the  anguishes,  the  thoughts,  which  in  that 
tedious  and  terrible  night  I  had  and  passed,  that  I  may  not 
go  against  that  which  before  I  propounded  and  promised,  in 
relating  briefly  unto  thee  my  misfortune.  Suffice  it  that  they 
were  such  and  so  great  that  if  Death  had  come  to  me  at  that 
time,  he  needed  not  to  have  taken  any  great  pains  in  taking 
away  my  life.  Day  appeared,  but  with  appearance  of  a  far 
greater  storm  than  the  former,  and  we  found  that  our  vessel 
lay  riding  out  at  sea,  and  a  good  ways  off  from  the  rocks ;  and 
having  descried  a  point  of  the  island,  and  perceiving  that  we 
might  easily  double  it,  both  Turks  and  Christians  began  to 
be  of  good  cheer,  taking  new  hopes  and  new  hearts  unto  them, 
fell  anew  to  their  work;  in  six  hours  we  doubled  the  point, 
and  found  the  sea  more  calm  and  quiet,  insomuch  that  with  a 
great  deal  more  ease  they  could  handle  and  use  their  oars; 
and  coming  under  lee  of  the  island,  the  Turks  leapt  out  to 
land,  and  went  to  see  if  there  were  any  relics  remaining  of  the 
galley  which  the  night  before  fell  on  the  rocks.  But  even 
then,  too,  would  not  Fortune  be  so  favourable  unto  me  as  to 
give  me  that  poor  comfort  which  I  hoped  to  have  had  of  see- 
ing Leonisa's  body  in  these  my  arms,  which  though  dead  and 
broken  I  would  have  been  glad  to  have  seen  it,  for  to  break 
that  impossibility  which  my  star  had  put  upon  me  of  linking 
myself  therewith,  as  my  desires  well  deserved,  and  therefore 
entreated  one  of  the  renegadoes  to  disembark  himself  to  go 
in  search  thereof,  and  to  see  if  the  rolling  of  the  sea  had  cast 
her  on  the  shore.  But,  as  I  told  thee,  all  this  did  Heaven 
deny  me;  and  just  in  that  very  instant  the  wind  began  to  rise 
and  the  sea  grow  rough,  so  that  the  shelter  of  that  island  was 
not  of  any  benefit  at  all  unto  us..  Fctala,  seeing  this,  would 
not  strive  against  Fortune,  who  had  so  violently  persecuted 


THE  LIBERAL  LOVER  149 

him,  and  therefore  commanded  them  to  right  and  fit  the  galley 
to  bear  a  little  sail,  and  to  turn  the  prow  to  the  seaward  and 
the  poop  to  the  windward;  and  he  himself  taking  charge  of 
the  rudder,  sate  at  the  helm,  suffering  her  to  run  through  the 
wide  sea,  being  well  assured  that  no  impediment  would  cross 
its  course.  The  oars  bare  themselves  very  even,  being  seated 
very  orderly  on  their  banks,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  company 
got  them  into  the  hold  underneath  the  hatches,  so  that  there 
was  not. a  man  to  be  seen  on  the  deck  save  the  master,  who 
for  his  mbre  safety  caused  himself  to  be  bound  fast  to  his  seat, 
giving  thence  direction  to  the  rowers  for  the  better  governing 
and  guiding  of  the  vessel,  which  made  its  way  with  that 
swiftness  that  in  three  days  and  three  nights,  passing  in  sight 
of  Trapana,  of  Melazo,  and  Palermo,  she  imboked^  by  the 
Pharos  of  Messina,  to  the  wonderful  fear  of  those  that  were 
in  her,  and  of  those  likewise  which  beheld  them  on  the  land. 
In  fine,  not  to  be  tedious  in  recounting  unto  thee  the  terrible- 
ness  of  this  tempest,  which  is  beyond  all  expression,  I  say,  that 
being  weary,  hungry,  and  tired  out  with  such  a  large  com- 
pass about  as  was  the  rounding  of  almost  all  the  whole  island 
of  Sicily,  we  arrived  at  Tripoli  in  Barbary,  where  my  master 
(before  that  he  had  reckoned  with  his  Levant-men,  shared 
out  the  spoils,  and  given  that  unto  them  which  was  their 
due,  and  a  fifth  to  the  King,  as  the  custom  is)  fell  sick  of  a 
pleurisy,  accompanied  wath  a  burning  fever,  in  that  violent 
manner  that  within  three  days  it  sent  him  packing  to  hell. 
The  King  of  Tripoli  seized  presently  upon  all  his  goods,  and 
the  Alcaide  de  los  Muertos,  which  is  an  office  of  inquiry  con- 
cerning the  dead,  substituted  by  the  Great  Turk,  who,  as  you 
know,  is  heir  ^  to  those  that  are  his  natural  subjects  after 
their  deaths.  These  two  possessed  themselves  of  all  my  mas- 
ter Fetala's  wealth,  and  I  fell  into  the  hands  of  him  who  was 
the  Viceroy  of  Tripoli,  and  within  fifteen  days  after  he  re- 
ceived his  patent  for  Cyprus,  with  whom,  you  see,  I  am  come 
hither,  but  without  any  intention  at  all  to  ransom  myself, 
though  he  hath  often  told  me  that  I  should  if  I  would,  and 
wondered  why  I  did  not  do  it  all  this  while,  being,  as  Fetala's 

.    ^  /mdoked—emhogued,  passed  into  the  strait, — [Ed.] 

'  Heir — more  correctly,  inherits  the  goods  of  those  who  die  with 
out  heirs. — [Ed.] 


150      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

soldiers  told  him,  a  principal  person  and  a  man  of  good  means 
in  his  own  country;  but  I  was  so  far  from  entertaining  that 
motion  that  I  told  him  that  they  had  misinformed  him  of  my 
fortunes.  And  if  thou  wilt,  Mahamut,  that  I  acquaint  thee 
truly  with  what  I  think,  know  thou  then  that  I  will  never 
return  back  again  to  that  place,  where  I  can  no  ways  receive 
any  comfort,  and  where  Leonisa's  death  will  in  part,  if  not 
wholly,  be  imputed  unto  me.  What  pleasure  then  can  I  take, 
either  there  or  here,  in  this  my  thraldom,  though  I  must  con- 
fess that  the  remembrance  of  her  loss  is  more  grievous  unto 
me  than  a  thousand  captivities?  And  if  it  be  true  that  con- 
tinual sorrows  must  of  force  have  an  end,  or  end  him  who 
suffers  them,  mine  cannot  choose  but  do  it,  for  I  am  resolved 
to  give  them  such  a  loose  rein  that  within  a  few  days  they 
shall  give  an  end  to  this  my  miserable  life,  which  I  hold  so 
much  against  my  will.  This,  O  my  brother  Mahamut,  is  my 
sad  success;  this  is  the  cause  of  these  my  sighs  and  tears. 
Behold  now  and  consider  if  this  be  not  sufficient  for  to  hale 
the  one  from  out  the  deepest  bottom  of  my  bowels,  and  to 
exhale  the  other  from  out  my  afflicted  and  tormented  bosom? 
Leonisa  is  dead,  and  with  her  my  hope;  and  though  that 
which  I  had  (she  living)  hung  but  by  a  small  and  slender 
thread,  yet — yet " —  And  with  this  "  yet "  his  tongue  clave 
so  close  to  the  roof  of  his  mouth  that  he  could  not  speak  one 
word  more,  nor  refrain  from  weeping,  whose  tears,  drop  after 
drop,  one  overtaking  another,  trickled  down  his  face  in  such 
abundance  that  the  ground  was  all  wet  whereon  they  fell. 
Mahamut  accompanied  those  with  his  tears. 

But  this  paroxysm  being  over-past,  caused  by  relating 
this  sad  story  and  calling  to  mind  his  lost  Leonisa,  Mahamut 
was  very  willing,  and  withal  went  about  to  comfort  him  all 
that  he  could,  with  as  good  terms  and  persuasions  as  possibly 
he  could  devise.  But  Ricardo  did  cut  him  short  of  telling 
him :  "  That  which  thou  art,  my  dear  friend,  to  do  is,  that  thou 
wilt  advise  me  what  course  I  shall  take  for  to  fall  into  dis- 
grace with  my  master,  and  with  all  those  with  whom  I  shall 
converse,  that  being  hated  and  abhorred  by  him  and  by  them, 
the  one  and  the  other  might  ill-entreat  me,  and  persecute  me 
in  such  sort  that,  adding  sorrow  to  sorrow,  I  may  speedily 
obtain  that  which  I  so  earnestly  desire,  which  is,  to  end 
my  life." 


THE  LIBERAL  LOVER  15 1 

"Now  I  find  that  to  be  true,"  said  Mahamut,  "  which  is 
commonly  spoken :  '  Lo  que  se  sabe  sentir,  se  sabe  decir ' — 
He  that  knows  his  grief,  knows  how  to  speak  it — though 
sometimes  it  so  happeneth  that  it  maketh  the  tongue  dumb. 
But  howsoever  it  be,  whether  thy  sorrows  reach  to  thy  words, 
or  thy  words  outgo  thy  sorrows,  thou  shalt  ever,  Ricardo, 
find  me  thy  true  friend  either  for  assistance  or  for  counsel; 
for  albeit  my  few  years  and  the  inconsiderateness  which  I 
have  committed  in  putting  myself  into  this  habit  may  cry  out 
against  me  that  of  neither  of  these  two  things  which  I  offer 
thee  thou  mayst  have  any  confidence  or  hope,  yet  will  I 
endeavour  to  the  utmost  of  my  power  that  this  suspicion 
may  not  prove  true,  nor  any  such  opinion  be  held  for  certain. 
And  albeit  thou  wilt  not  neither  be  advised  nor  assisted  by 
me,  yet  will  I  not  leave  off  doing  that  which  shall  be  fitting 
and  convenient  for  thee ;  as  good  physicians  use  to  deal  with 
their  sick  patients,  who  do  not  give  them  that  which  they 
crave,  but  what  they  think  convenient  for  them  to  have. 
There  is  not  any  in  all  this  city  that  can  do  or  prevail  more 
than  the  Cadi  my  master;  no,  not  even  thine,  who  comes  to 
be  Viceroy  thereof,  is  so  powerful  as  he.  This  being  so  as  it 
is,  I  dare  be  bold  to  say  that  I  am  the  man  that  can  do  most  in 
this  city,  because  I  can  do  whatsoever  I  will  with  my  master. 
I  speak  this,  because  it  may  be  I  shall  so  plot  the  business 
with  him,  and  bring  it  so  handsomely  about,  that  thou  mayst 
come  to  be  his;  and  being  in  my  company,  time  will  teach 
us  that  which  we  are  to  do,  as  well  for  to  comfort  thee,  if 
thou  wilt  or  canst  be  comforted,  as  likewise  for  myself  to  get 
out  of  this  to  a  better  life,  or  at  least  to  some  place  where  it 
may  be  more  safe  when  I  leave  this." 

"  I  kindly  thank  you,  Mahamut,"  repHed  Ricardo,  "  for 
your  proffered  friendship,  though  sure  I  am  that  when  thou 
hast  done  all  thou  canst  do,  thou  canst  not  do  anything  that 
can  do  me  any  good.  But  let  us  now  give  over  this  discourse 
and  make  towards  the  tents;  for,  if  my  eyesight  deceive  me 
not,  I  see  a  great  press  of  people  coming  out  of  the  city,  and 
doubtless  it  is  the  old  Viceroy,  who  comes  forth  into  the  field 
for  to  give  place  unto  my  master,  that  he  may  enter  the  city 
to  make  his  residence." 

"  It  is  even  so,"  said  Mahamut.  "  Come  along  with  me, 
Ricardo,  and  thou  shalt  see  the  ceremonies  wherewith  they 


t^2  THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORV 

receive  him,  for  I  know  thou  wilt  take  pleasure  in  seeing 
them." 

"  With  a  very  good  will/'  answered  Ricardo ;  "  for  per- 
adventure  I  shall  have  need  of  thee,  if  happily  the  guardian 
of  my  master's  captives  should  happen  to  meet  with  me,  who 
is  a  renegado,  and  by  birth  of  Corso,  but  of  no  very  pitiful 
and  tender  bowels." 

Here  they  left  off  any  further  communication,  and  came 
to  the  tents  just  at  that  very  instant  as  the  old  Bashaw  came 
thither,  and  the  new  one  came  forth  to  receive  him  at  the 
door  of  the  tent.  Ali  Bashaw  (for  so  was  he  called  who  left 
the  government)  came  accompanied  with  all  the  Janizaries, 
being  the  ordinary  garrison  soldiers  in  Nicosia  ever  since  the 
Turks  were  masters  of  it,  being  to  the  number  of  five  hun- 
dred. They  came  in  two  wings  or  files,  the  one  with  their 
muskets  and  the  others  with  naked  cimeters.  They  came  to  the 
tent  of  the  new  Bashaw  Hazan,  rounding  it  from  one  side  at 
the  door  thereof  till  they  met  at  the  other,  where  Ali  Bashaw, 
bowing  his  body,  made  a  lowly  reverence  to  Hazan ;  and  he, 
with  a  less  inclining  himself,  re-saluted  him. 

This  done,  Ali  presently  entered  into  Hazan's  pavilion, 
where  the  Turks  presently  mounted  him  upon  a  proud  horse, 
with  wondrous  rich  furniture,  and  conducting  him  round 
about  the  tents  and  a  good  part  of  the  field,  clamouring  out 
with  loud  acclamations  in  their  own  language :  "  Long  live 
Solyman  Sultan,  and  Hazan  Bashaw  in  his  name !  "  They  re- 
peated this  very  often,  reinforcing  their  voices  and  vocifera- 
tions, and  then  presently  returned  back  again  to  the  tent, 
where  Ali  Bashaw  remained,  who  with  the  Cadi  and  Hazan 
shut  themselves  up  close  for  the  space  of  one  hour  all  alone. 
Mahamut  then  told  Ricardo  that  they  had  thus  retired  them- 
selves to  treat  of  that  which  was  fit  to  be  done  in  the  city 
touching  such  businesses  as  were  commenced  but  not  finished 
by  Ali.  Within  a  little  while  after  the  Cadi  came  forth  to 
the  door  of  the  tent,  and  said  with  a  loud  voice  in  the  Turk- 
ish, Arabic,  and  Greek  tongue :  "  That  all  they  who  would 
enter  to  crave  justice  or  to  lay  any  other  matter  against  Ali 
Bashaw  might  have  free  entrance;  for  there  was  Hazan 
Bashaw,  whom  the  Grand  Signior  hath  sent  for  Viceroy  of 
.Cyprus,  who  would  do  them  all  right  and  justice."  This 
license  being  given,  the  Janizaries  left  the  door  of  the  tent 


THE  LIBERAL  LOVER  153 

disoccupied,  and  gave  way  to  such  as  would  enter  in.  Maha- 
mut  wrought  Ricardo  to  go  in  with  him,  who,  for  that  they 
were  Kazan's  slaves,  had  without  any  hindrance  free  access 
thereunto. 

There  entered  to  crave  justice  some  Greek  Christians  and 
some  Turks,  but  all  of  them  charging  him  with  such  trifling 
things  and  of  so  small  moment  that  the  Cadi  despatched  most 
of  them  without  giving  a  copy  to  the  defendant,  without 
further  examination,  demands,  and  answers;  for  all  causes, 
unless  th6y  be  matrimonial,  are  despatched  in  an  instant, 
more  by  the  judgment  of  a  good  understanding  man  than  the 
quirks  of  law.  And  among  these  Barbarians  (if  they  be  so 
in  this  particular)  the  Cadi  is  the  competent  judge  of 
all  causes,  who  doth  abbreviate  them  and  determine  them 
in  the  turning  of  a  hand,  and  forthwith  pronounceth  sen- 
tence, without  any  appealing  therefrom  to  any  other  tri- 
bunal. 

In  this  interim  entered  in  a  Chauz,  which  is  as  it  were  an 
Alquazil,  and  said  that  there  was  a  Jew  at  the  tent  door  who 
had  brought  to  be  sold  a  most  fair  and  beautiful  Christian; 
the  Cadi  commanded  that  they  should  bid  him  come  in.  The 
Chauz  went  forth,  and  presently  came  in  again,  leading  the 
way  to  a  venerable  Jew,  who  led  by  the  hand  a  woman  in  a 
Barbary  habit,  so  well  made  and  set  forth  that  the  richest 
Moor  in  Fez  or  Morocco  was  not  able  to  compare  therewith, 
for  in  her  whole  dress  throughout  she  surpassed  all  the  Afri- 
can women;  yea,  though  even  those  of  Argiers  should  have 
presented  themselves  there  with  all  their  pearls  and  rich 
embroideries.  She  came  in  having  her  face  covered  with  a 
scarf  of  crimson  taffeta;  about  the  smalls  of  her  legs  (which 
discovered  themselves)  there  appeared  two  golden  chains  of 
pure  burnished  gold;  and  on  her  arms,  which  likewise  through 
a  smock  of  sendall,  or  thin  taffeta  sarcenet  were  transparent, 
and  showed  themselves  to  the  searching  curious  eyes  of  the 
beholders,  she  ware  two  bracelets  of  gold,  wherein  were  set 
scatteringly  here  and  there  many  fair  pearls  and  precious 
stones.  In  conclusion,  the  fashion  of  her  clothes  and  all 'other 
habiliments  about  her  were  such  that  she  presented  herself 
before  them  most  richly  and  gorgeously  attired. 

The  Cadi  and  the  other  two  Bashaws  upon  the  very  first 
sight  of  her  being  mightily  taken,  before  any  other  thing  was 
11 


1S4  TH£  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

said  or  questioned  by  them,  they  willed  the  Jew  that  he 
should  take  the  scarf  from  off  the  Christian's  face.  He  did 
so,  and  withal  did  discover  such  a  splendour  and  such  a  beau- 
tiful countenance  as  did  dazzle  the  eyes  and  glad  the  hearts 
of  all  the  standers-by.  As  the  sun  scarfed  with  clouds  after 
much  darkness  offers  itself  to  the  eyes  of  those  who  long  for 
its  desired  presence,  such  and  no  otherwise  than  such  was 
the  beauty  of  this  captived  Christian  in  this  her  bravery  and 
gallantry. 

But  he  on  whom  this  wonderful  light  which  was  discov- 
ered wrought  the  greatest  and  deepest  impression  was  this 
our  sorrowful  Ricardo,  as  one  who  better  than  any  other  knew 
her,  since  that  she  was  his  cruel  and  beloved  Leonisa,  who  so 
often  and  with  so  many  tears  had  by  him  been  reputed  and 
deplored  for  dead.  With  the  sudden  and  unexpected  sight  of 
the  singular  beauty  of  this  Christian  the  heart  of  AH  was 
wounded  and  captivated,  and  in  the  same  degree  and  with 
the  selfsame  wound  Hazan  found  himself  touched;  the  Cadi 
himself  not  being  exempted  from  this  amorous  wound,  who, 
more  perplexed  than  both  the  other,  knew  not  how  to  remove 
his  eyes  from  looking  on  those  fairer  lights  of  Leonisa.  And 
for  to  endear  the  great  and  powerful  force  of  love,  I  would 
have  thee  to  take  notice  that  at  one  and  the  same  instant 
there  was  bred  in  the  hearts  of  all  these  three  one  and  the 
same  (as  they  flattered  themselves)  firm  hope  of  obtaining 
and  enjoying  her;  and  therefore,  without  questioning  how, 
where,  and  when  the  Jew  came  by  her,  they  only  asked  him 
what  he  would  take  for  her.  The  covetous  Jew  answered : 
"  Two  thousand  crowns."  But  he  had  scarce  set  the  price 
but  that  AH  Bashaw  said  unto  him  that  he  would  give  him 
so  much  for  her,  and  that  he  would  go  to  his  tent  and  pres- 
ently bring  him  his  money. 

But  Hazan  Bashaw,  who  was  minded  that  he  should  not 
have  her,  though  therein  he  should  hazard  his  life,  said:  "  I 
likewise  will  give  for  her  those  two  thousand  crowns  which 
the  Jew  demandeth ;  yet  would  I  neither  give  so  much,  neither 
set  myself  to  cross  AH  herein,  or  what  he  hath  offered,  did 
not  that  enforce  me  thereunto,  which  he  himself  shall  con- 
fess is  reason,  and  doth  oblige  and  force  me  to  do  as  I  do,  and 
this  it  is,  that  this  Gentile  slave  appertaineth  not  to  either  of 
us  two,  but  only  to  the  Grand  Signior,  and  therefore  I  say 


THE   LIBERAL  LOVER  155 

that  in  his  name  I  buy  her.  Now  let  us  see  who  dare  be  so 
bold  as  to  offer  to  take  her  from  me  !  " 

"  Marry,  that  dare  I,"  replied  Ali,  "  because  for  the  self- 
same end  and  purpose  do  I  buy  her ;  and  it  appertaineth  more 
especially  unto  me  to  tender  this  present  to  the  Grand 
Signior,  in  regard  of  the  conveniency  that  I  have  to  convey 
her  forthwith  to  Constantinople,  carrying  her  along  with  me, 
that  thereby  I  may  gain  the  good-will  of  the  Grand  Signior. 
For  I  being  now  a  man^  as  thou  now,  Hazan,  seest,  without 
any  charge  or  command,  I  had  need  seek  out  some  means  to 
procure  it,  wherein  thou  art  surely  settled  for  three  years, 
since  that  this  is  the  very  first  day  in  which  thou  beginnest 
to  bear  rule  and  to  govern  this  rich  kingdom  of  Cyprus ;  and 
therefore,  as  well  for  these  reasons  as  that  I  was  the  first 
that  offered  the  propounded  price  for  her,  it  stands  with  all 
reason,  O  Hazan,  that  thou  leave  her  unto  me." 

"  Nay,  rather  it  is  more  fitting,  and  will  be  better  taken  at 
my  hands,"  replied  Hazan,  "  to  procure  her  and  send  her  to 
the  Grand  Signior,  since  that  I  do  it  without  being  moved 
thereunto  out  of  mine  own  private  interest  or  expectancy  of 
profit.  And  whereas  you  allege  the  commodiousness  and  con- 
veniency of  carrying  her  along  with  you,  I  will  set  forth  a 
galley  of  mine  own  well  armed,  putting  thereinto  men  of 
mine  own,  some  servants,  some  slaves,  which  shall  serve  for 
her  convoy  and  go  along  with  her." 

At  these  words  Ali's  blood  began  to  rise,  and  rising  upon 
his  feet,  he  laid  his  hand  on  his  cimeter,  saying :  "  Hazan,  my 
intentions  being  the  same  for  the  presenting  and  carrying  of 
this  Christian  to  the  Grand  Signior,  and  I  having  been  the 
first  chapman  that  drave  the  bargain,  it  is  grounded  upon  all 
reason  and  justice  that  thou  leave  her  unto  me;  and  if  thou 
shouldst  but  think  to  carry  her  from  me,  this  cimeter  which 
I  lay  my  hand  on  shall  defend  my  right  and  chastise  thy 
presumption." 

The  Cadi,  who  was  attentive  to  all  that  passed  between 
them,  and  burned  no  less  in  love's  flames  than  the  other  two, 
fearing  lest  he  might  go  without  the  Christian,  bethought 
himself  how  he  might  quench  this  great  fire  which  was  kin- 
dled between  them,  and  withal  to  get  the  captive  into  his  own 
custody  without  giving  any  the  least  suspicion  of  his  dam- 
nable intention;  and  therefore,  rising  up,  he  interposed  him- 


15^      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

self  between  them,  and  said :  "  Hazan  and  AH,  let  me  entreat 
you  both  to  be  quiet  and  lay  aside  these  your  differences,  and 
I  doubt  not  but  I  shall  be  able  to  compose  them  in  such  sort 
that  both  of  you  may  effect  your  intentions,  and  the  Grand 
Signior  be,  as  you  desire,  well  served  by  you." 

To  these  words  of  the  Cadi  they  presently  showed  them- 
selves obedient,  and  had  he  commanded  them  a  greater  mat- 
ter they  would  have  done  it  (so  great  is  the  respect  which 
those  of  that  sect  bare  to  his  gray  hairs). 

The  Cadi  then  prosecuting  what  he  had  begun  in  this 
manner :  "  Thou,  Ali,  sayest  that  thou  wouldst  have  this 
Christian  for  the  Grand  Signior ;  and  Hazan  he  says  the  like. 
Thou  allegest  that  thou  wast  the  first  in  offering  the  de- 
manded price  for  her,  and  therefore  she  ought  to  be  thine. 
Hazan  contradicts  thee  in  this;  and  though  he  doth  not  put 
his  argument  so  home  to  the  pinching-point,  yet  I  find  it  is 
the  same  as  thine  is — that  is,  the  same  intention,  which 
without  all  doubt  was  hatched  as  soon  as  thine  was,  in  his 
desire  and  willingness  to  buy  the  slave  for  the  same  effect, 
only  thou  gotst  the  start  of  him  in  having  first  declared  thy- 
self;  yet  ought  not  this  to  be  a  cause  that  he  should  absolutely 
and  wholly  be  defrauded  and  frustrated  of  his  good  desire, 
and  therefore,  iq  my  opinion,  it  shall  not  be  amiss  to  accord 
this  business  between  you  in  this  form  and  manner  following : 
that  both  of  you  shall  have  equal  interest  in  this  slave,  and 
since  that  the  use  of  her  is  to  be  at  the  will  and  pleasure 
of  the  Grand  Signior,  for  whom  she  is  bought,  it  belongeth 
unto  him  to  dispose  of  her.  In  the  meanwhile,  you,  Hazan, 
shall  pay  two  thousand^  crowns,  and  Ali  shall  lay  down  the 
other  two  thousand,  and  the  captive  shall  remain  in  my 
power,  to  the  end  that  in  both  your  names  I  may  send  her  to 
Constantinople,  that  neither  of  you  might  remain  unreward- 
ed; and  can  certify,  as  being  an  eye-witness,  your  forward- 
ness to  gratify  the  Grand  Signior,  and  therefore  offer  myself 
to  send  her  thither  at  my  cost  and  charge  with  that  author- 
ity and  decency  which  is  due  to  him  to  whom  she  is  sent, 
writing    to   the    Grand    Signior,    acquainting    him    with    all 

*  Two  thousand— \\.  ought  to  be  one  thousand.  Mabbe  is  occa- 
sionally inaccurate  in  his  rendering  of  numbers  and  sums  of 
money. — [Ed.] 


THE  LIBERAL  LOVER  157 

that  which  passed  here  and  your  readiness  to  do  him  this 
service." 

These  two  enamoured  Turks  neither  knew,  nor  .could,  nor 
would  contradict  him,  each  of  them  forming  and  imagining 
in  his  mind  a  hope,  though  doubtful,  of  promising  to  them- 
selves the  attaining  to  the  end  of  their  inflamed  desires. 
Hazan,  who  was  to  continue  Viceroy  of  Cyprus,  thought  upon 
giving  great  gifts  to  the  Cadi,  that  being  thereby  overcome 
and  obliged,  he  should  deliver  up  unto  him  the  captive;  and 
AH  he  imagined  to  do  some  such  act  as  should  assure  the 
obtaining  of  what  he  desired;  and  each  of  them  holding  his 
own  design  the  best  and  the  surest,  they  easily  condescended 
to  what  the  Cadi  had  propounded,  and  with  a  joint  consent 
both  of  them  delivered  her  up  presently  unto  hiin,  and  made 
each  of  them  present  payment  to  the  Jew  one  thousand 
crowns  apiece.  But  the  Jew  said  he  would  not  part  with  her 
upon  those  terms,  if  they  meant  to  have  into  the  bargain  her 
wearing  apparel  and  her  jewels,  which  he  valued  at  one  thou- 
sand crowns  more.  And  in  very  deed  they  could  be  little  less 
worth,  because  in  her  hairs,  which  partly  hung  dishevelled  on 
her  shoulders  and  partly  knit  up  in  curious  knots  on  her 
forehead,  there  appeared  some  ropes  of  pearls  which  very 
gracefully  were  interwoven  with  them.  The  bracelets  about 
her  arms  and  above  her  ankles,  in  the  small  of  the  leg,  were 
likewise  full  of  great  pearls;  her  raiment  throughout  was 
very  rich,  and  thereon  a  mantle,  after  the  Moorish  manner, 
of  green  satin,  deeply  fringed  and  embroidered  with  gold. 

In  a  word,  it  seemed  to  all  that  were  there  present  that 
the  Jew  had  undervalued  the  attiring  of  her;  and  the  Cadi, 
that  he  might  not  show  himself  less  liberal  than  the  two 
Bashaws,  told  him  he  would  pay  him  those  thousand  crowns, 
because  he  would  have  her  to  be  presented  in  the  same  dress 
which  she  was  now  in  to  the  Grand  Signior.  The  two  com- 
petitors did  approve  very  well  of  it,  each  of  them  believing 
that  all  should  fall  out  as  they  would  have  it. 

I  want  now  words  significant  enough  to  tell  you  what 
Ricardo  thought  in  seeing  his  soul  set  out  thus  to  open  sale, 
and  those  thoughts  which  then  came  into  his  head,  and  those 
fears  which  suddenly  surprised  him,  whereas  he  saw  that  his 
finding  of  his  beloved  pledge  was  to  lose  her  the  more.  He 
knew  not  for  a  while  whether  he  were  sleeping  or  waking, 


15^     THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

not  believing  his  own  eyes  in  giving  credit  to  that  which 
they  had  seen ;  for  it  seemed  unto  him  a  thing  impossible  that 
they  should  see  so  unexpectedly  before  them  those  eyes  of 
hers  which  he  had  not  long  since  given  to  be  shut  up  in 
eternal  darkness. 

When  he  saw  that  this  was  no  phantasma  or  dream,  but 
a  real  truth,  he  came  to  his  friendly  Mahamut,  and  whisper- 
ing him  in  the  ear,  said  softly  unto  him :  "  Friend,  dost  not 
thou  know  her  ?  " 

"  Not  I,"  said  Mahamut. 

"  Then  would  I  have  thee  know,"  replied  Ricardo,  "  that 
it  is  Leonisa." 

"  How,"  answered  Mahamut,  "  what  is  that,  Ricardo,  thou 
sayest  ?  " 

"  That,"  said  Ricardo,  "  which  thou  hast  already  heard." 

"  Hold  thy  peace,  then,  and  do  not  discover  her,"  replied 
Mahamut ;  "  for  Fortune  goes  now  so  ordering  the  business 
that  thou  shalt  find  her  good  and  prosperous,  since  that  she 
is  in  my  master's  power." 

"  Dost  thou  think  it  fit,"  said  Ricardo,  "  that  I  go  and  put 
myself  in  some  such  place  where  I  may  be  seen  by  her?  " 

"  No,  by  no  means,"  replied  Mahamut,  "  lest  she  should 
put  you,  or  you  her,  into  some  sudden  passion;  and  have  a 
great  care  that  you  do  not  give  any  the  least  sign  or  token 
that  you  know  her,  or  that  ever  you  had  seen  her,  for  if  you 
should  do  so  it  might  redound  much  to  the  prejudice  of  my 
design,  if  not  utterly  overthrow  it." 

"  I  will  follow  your  advice,"  answered  Ricardo ;  and  so 
went  his  way,  leaving  the  place  lest  his  eyes  might  encounter 
with  those  of  Leonisa;  who  held  hers  all  the  while  that  this 
passed  nailed  to  the  ground,  trilling  some  tears  down  from 
them. 

She  being  thus,  as  you  have  heard,  rendered  up  unto  the 
Cadi,  he  came  unto  her,  and  laying  hands  on  her,  delivered 
her  unto  Mahamut,  commanding  him  to  carry  her  to  the  city, 
with  charge  to  deliver  her  to  his  lady  Halima,  and  to  tell 
her  withal  that  she  should  use  and  entreat  her  well,  as  being 
the  slave  of  the  Grand  Signior.  Mahamut  did  so,  and  left 
Ricardo  all  alone,  who  with  his  eyes  went  following  this  his 
star,  till  it  was  wholly  taken  out  of  his  sight  and  covered  as  it 
were  with  a  cloud  from  him  by  the  walls  of  Nicosia.    Having 


THE  LIBERAL  LOVER  159 

lost  her,  he  goes  to  look  out  the  Jew,  finds  him,  and  com- 
ing civilly  unto  him,  asked  him  where  he  had  bought  this 
captive  Christian,  and  how  and  in  what  manner  she  came  into 
his  hand.  The  Jew  made  him  answer  that  he  lighted  on  her 
in  the  island  of  Pantanalea,  and  that  he  bought  her  of  cer- 
tain Turks  whose  galley  had  suffered  wrack,  being  split  there 
against  the  rocks ;  and  being  willing  to  have  gone  on  in  the 
prosecution  of  what  he  had  begun,  it  received  interruption 
and  was  wholly  broken  off  by  one  that  came  from  the  Ba- 
shaws, tilling  the  Jew  that  he  must  come  away  presently  unto 
them,  who  had  purposely  sent  for  him  that  they  might 
demand  that  of  him  which  Ricardo  was  so  desirous  to  know ; 
and  thereupon  he  abruptly  took  his  leave. 

In  the  way  which  was  between  the  tents  and  the  town 
Mahamut  took  occasion  to  ask  Leonisa  (speaking  unto  her 
in  Italian)  whence  she  was  and  of  what  place;  who  made 
him  answer  that  she  was  of  the  city  of  Trapana. 

Then  Mahamut  demanded  again  of  her  whether  she  did 
know  in  that  city  a  rich  and  noble  gentleman  called  Ricardo. 

At  her  hearing  him  named  Leonisa  fetched  a  deep  sigh, 
saying :  "  Too,  too  well,  to  my  hurt." 

"  How  to  your  hurt  ?  "  replied  Mahamut. 

"  Because  he  knew  me,"  said  Leonisa,  "  to  his  own  and 
my  unhappiness." 

"  But  I  pray  tell  me,"  quoth  Mahamut,  "  did  you  know 
likewise  in  the  said  city  another  gentleman,  of  a  gentle  dispo- 
sition, the  son  of  very  rich  parents,  and  himself  in  his  own 
person  very  valiant,  very  liberal,  and  very  discreet,  called 
Cornelio  ?  " 

"  I  likewise  know  him,"  said  Leonisa,  "  and,  I  may  say, 
much  more  to  my  hurt  than  Ricardo.  But  I  pray,  sir,  who 
are  you,  who  know  these  two  and  ask  me  of  them  ?  " 

"  I  am,"  said  Mahamut,  "  of  Palermo,  and  by  various  ac- 
cidents in  this  disguise  and  different  habit  from  that  which 
I  was  wont  to  wear.  I  know  them  passing  well,  for  it  is  not 
many  days  since  that  they  were  both  in  my  power ;  for  cer- 
tain Moors  of  Tripoli  in  Barbary  had  taken  Cornelio  captive 
and  sold  him  to  a  Turk,  who  brought  him  to  this  island, 
whither  he  came  with  merchandise  (for  he  is  a  merchant  of 
Rhodes),  who  had  trusted  Cornelio  with  all  his  goods." 

"  And  he  will  keep  them  well/'  said  Leonisa,  "  because 


i6o      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

he  knows  so  well  to  keep  his  own.  But  tell  me,  sir,  how  of 
with  whom  Ricardo  came  to  this  island  ?  " 

"  Marry,  he  came,"  answered  Mahamut,  "  with  a  pirate 
who  took  him  prisoner  in  a  garden  near  the  seashore  of  Tra- 
pana,  and  [said]  that  together  with  him  he  had  captivated  a 
damosel,  but  I  could  never  get  him  to  tell  me  her  name.  He 
abode  here  some  few  days  with  his  master,  who  was  to  go  to 
visit  Mahomet's  Sepulchre,  which  is  in  the  city  of  Almedina ; 
but  just  at  the  time  of  his  departure  Ricardo  fell  so  extreme 
sick  that  his  master  left  him  with  me  (for  that  I  was  his 
countryman),  to  the  end  that  I  might  use  all  the  best  means 
for  his  recovery,  and  take  care  and  charge  of  him  till  his 
return ;  and  in  case  that  he  did  not  return  hither,  that  I  should 
send  him  unto  him  to  Constantinople,  whereof  he  would  ad- 
vertise me  when  he  came  thither.  But  Heaven  had  otherwise 
ordered  it,  since  that  unfortunate  Ricardo,  without  having 
any  accident  or  symptom  of  a  dangerous  sickness,  within  a 
few  days  ended  those  of  his  life,  making  often  mention  of 
one  Leonisa,  whom,  as  himself  told  me,  he  loved  more  than 
his  own  life,  and  was  as  dear  unto  him,  if  not  dearer,  than 
his  own  soul ;  which  Leonisa,  as  he  at  large  related  unto  me, 
suffered  shipwreck  at  the  island  of  Pantanalea,  the  galley 
wherein  she  was  being  split  upon  the  rocks,  and  herself 
drowned;  whose  death  he  continually  lamented,  and  with 
much  weeping  bewailed,  till  that  his  mourning  had  brought 
him  to  breathe  his  last,  for  I  perceived  no  sickness  at  all  in 
him  in  his  body,  but  great  shows  of  grief  and  sorrow  in 
bis  soul." 

"  Tell  me,  sir,"  replied  Leonisa,  "  this  other  young  man 
whom  you  speak  of,  in  those  his  discourses  which  he  had 
with  you,  which  (for  that  you  were  of  his  own  country) 
could  not  but  be  very  many,  did  he  not  at  any  time  speak  of 
Leonisa?  And  did  he  tell  you  how  she  and  Ricardo  were 
made  captives,  and  the  whole  manner  of  it?" 

"  Speak  of  her?  "  said  Mahamut.  "  Yes,  a  thousand  and  a 
thousand  times,  and  asked  me  many  a  time  and  oft  whether 
any  Christian  of  this  name  had  of  late  been  brought  to  this 
island,  and  with  such  and  such  marks  and  tokens,  and  how 
glad  he  would  be  to  hear  any  tidings  of  her,  that  he  might 
ransom  her.  And  withal  I  must  tell  you  that  he  had  told  his 
master,  and  in  telling  made  him  believe,  that  she  was  not  §o 


THE  LIBERAL  LOVER  163 

rich  as  he  took  her  to  be,  and  for  that  he  had  enjoyed  her, 
he  might  now  make  the  less  reckoning  of  her,  and  that  if 
three  or  four  hundred  crowns  would  purchase  her  freedom 
he  would  willingly  give  so  much  for  her,  because  heretofore 
he  had  borne  some  good-will  and  affection  towards  her." 

"  Very  little,"  said  Leonisa,  "  must  that  his  affection  be 
which  would  not  go  beyond  four  hundred  crowns.  But  Ri- 
cardo  is  more  liberal,  more  valiant,  more  generous  and  in- 
genious than  to  make  so  poor  an  offer  for  that  which  he  prized 
at  so  high  a  value.  God  pardon  the  party  that  was  the  cause 
of  his  death  !  for  it  was  I  that  am  that  unhappy  woman, 
whom  he  bewailed  for  dead ;  and  God  knows  if  I  should  not 
be  glad  with  all  my  heart  that  he  were  alive,  that  I  might  re- 
quite his  kindness,  and  that  he  might  see  how  sensible  I 
should  be  of  his  misfortune,  who  hath  sorrowed  so  much  for 
mine.  I,  sir,  as  I  have  already  told  you,  am  she  who  is  as 
little  beloved  of  Cornelio  as  I  was  greatly  bewailed  of 
Ricardo;  she  who  by  very  many  and  various  chances  am 
come  to  this  miserable  estate  wherein  I  now  find  myself;  and 
though  it  be  so  dangerous,  as  you  see,  yet  have  I  always,  by 
Heaven's  gracious  assistance,  kept  mine  honour  entire  and 
untouched,  wherewith  in  this  my  misery  I  live  contented. 
But  now,  woe  is  me !  neither  do  I  know  where  I  am  nor  who 
is  my  master,  nor  whither  my  contrarious  fates  will  hurry 
me;  wherefore  I  beseech  you,  sir,  by  that  blood  which  you 
have  in  you  of  a  Christian,  that  you  will  give  me  your  best 
counsel  and  advice  in  these  my  troubles,  which  for  that  they 
have  been  many,  though  they  have  made  me  look  about  and 
be  somewhat  the  more  wary  and  circumspect,  yet  notwith- 
standing such  and  so  many  every  moment  came  upon  me  that 
I  knew  not  well  how  to  prevent  and  withstand  them." 

Whereunto  Mahamut  answered,  that  he  would  do  all  what- 
soever he  was  able  to  do  in  serving,  advising,  and  assisting 
her  with  his  best  wit  and  strength ;  and  then  did  he  advertise 
her  of  the  difference  between  the  two  Bashaws  for  her  sake, 
and  how  that  she  now  remained  in  the  power  of  the  Cadi 
his  master,  for  the  conveying  and  presenting  her  to  the  Great 
Turk  Selim,  at  Constantinople ;  but  rather  than  this  should 
take  effect,  he  hoped  in  the  true  God,  in  whom  he  believed, 
though  a  bad  Christian,  that  He  would  dispose  otherwise  of 
her;  advising  her  withal,  that  by  bearing  herself  fairly  she 


i6o 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 


^'^hould  work  and  insinuate  herself  into  Halima's  favour  and 
good  opinion,  wife  to  the  Cadi  his  master,  in  whose  power 
she  was  to  remain  till  they  should  send  her  to  Constantinople, 
acquainting  her  withal  with  Halima's  conditions  and  qual- 
ities, and  besides  these  told  her  many  other  things  which 
might  make  much  for  her  good,  holding  talk  and  discourse 
with  her  all  the  way  till  he  had  brought  her  to  and  left  her 
in  the  Cadi's  house  and  in  the  power  of  Halima,  to  whom  he 
delivered  his  master's  message. 

The  Moor,  for  that  she  saw  she  was  so  well  clad  and  so 
beautiful,  gave  her  a  very  kind  and  friendly  welcome.  Maha- 
mut  having  rendered  up  his  charge  into  Halima's  hands,  re- 
turned back  to  the  tents  to  recount  unto  Ricardo  what  had 
passed  betwixt  himself  and  Leonisa,  and  meeting  with  him, 
told  him  all,  point  by  point,  from  the  beginning  to  the  end- 
ing. "  But  when  I  came  to  tell  him  how  sorrowful  Leonisa 
was  when  I  signified  unto  her  that  he  was  dead,  the  water 
stood  in  his  eyes.  I  told  him  how  I  had  feigned  that  coun- 
terfeit story  of  Cornelio's  being  a  captive,  to  see  how  she 
would  take  it;  I  acquainted  him  with  her  coldness  to  Cor- 
nelio,  and  the  bad  conceit  she  had  of  him  for  his  undervaluing 
her."  All  which  was  as  a  sovereign  cordial  to  Ricardo's  afflict- 
ed heart ;  who  said  unto  Mahamut :  "  There  comes  now  into 
my  mind,  friend  Mahamut,  a  tale  which  my  father  told  me, 
who  you  know  how  curious  he  was,  and  have  heard,  I  am 
sure,  what  great  honour  the  Emperor  Charles  the  Fifth  did 
him,  whom  he  still  served  in  honourable  places  in  his  wars.  I 
tell  you  that  he  told  me  that  when  the  Emperor  was  at  the 
siege  of  Tuniz,  and  took  it,  together  with  the  fort  Goleta, 
being  one  day  in  the  field  in  his  tent,  they  presented  unto  him 
a  Moor,  as  a  singular  rarity  for  her  beauty,  and  that  at  that 
very  time  wherein  they  presented  her  unto  him  entered  in 
certain  beams  of  the  sun  at  the  one  side  of  the  tent  and 
rested  on  the  hairs  of  the  Moor,  which  seemed  to  stand  in 
competition  with  those  of  the  sun,  being  between  red  and 
yellow,  resembling  the  colour  of  golden  wires — a  rare  and 
strange  thing  amongst  the  Moors,  with  whom  your  black  hairs 
are  in  greatest  esteem  and  request.  He  told  me  likewise  that 
on  that  occasion  there  were  in  the  tent,  amongst  many  other, 
two  Spanish  gentlemen,  both  very  discreet,  and  both  poets, 
the  one  of  Andaluzia,  the  other  of  Catalunia.     The  former 


THE  LIBERAL  LOVER  163 

having  taken  a  view  of  her,  vented  certain  verses  which 
they  call  coplas,  ending  in  rhyme ;  but  being  at  a  stand  when 
he  had  uttered  five  of  his  verses,  the  other  gentleman  (seeing 
him  stick,  and  that  he  could  go  no  further  to  make  an  end  of 
what  he  had  begun  for  want  of  words,  which  on  the  sudden 
did  not  offer  themselves  to  his  liking),  who  stood  close  by 
him  and  had  heard  these  his  verses,  went  presently  on  where 
he  left,  adding  instantly  five  other  to  the  former;  and  this 
presented  itself  unto  my  memory  when  I  saw  that  most  beau- 
tiful Le^nisa  enter  the  Bashaws'  tent,  not  only  outshining  the 
beams  of  the  sun,  should  they  have  lighted  on  her,  but  even 
heaven  itself  with  all  its  stars." 

"  Hold,"  said  Mahamut ;  "  no  more,  lest,  friend  Ricardo, 
thy  tongue  run  riot;  for  at  every  word  thou  utterest  I  am 
afraid  thou  wilt  pass  so  far  beyond  the  bounds  of  not  only 
reason  but  religion  in  the  praise  and  commendation  of  thy 
fair  Leonisa,  that  leaving  to  seem  a  Christian,  thou  wilt  be 
taken  for  a  Gentile.  Let  me  hear  those  verses  or  coplas, 
or  what  else  you  please  to  call  them,  that  we  may  afterwards 
talk  of  other  things  that  may  be  more  pleasing  and  perhaps 
more  profitable." 

"  In  good  time,"  said  Ricardo ;  "  but  let  me  once  again 
advertise  thee  that  the  Andaluz  vented  the  first  five  verses, 
and  the  Catalan  the  other  five,  both  extempore,  and  these 
they  be : 

And.  '  Whilst  I  behold  thy  glittering  golden  hairs, 
Dishevelled  thus,  waving  about  thy  ears, 
And  see  those  locks  thus  loosed  and  undone, 
For  their  more  pomp  to  sport  them  in  the  sun, 
Love  takes  those  threads  and  weaves  them  with  that  art' 

Cat.    •  He  knits  a  thousand  knots  about  my  heart. 

And  with  such  skill  and  cunning  he  them  set*. 
My  soul  lies  taken  in  those  lovely  nets. 
Making  me  cry,  fair  prison  that  dost  hold 
My  heart  in  fetters  wrought  of  burnished  gold."^ 

"  I  like  them  well,"  said  Mahamut,  "  but  much  better,  my 
Ricardo,  that  you  are  in  this  good  humour  of  repeating 
verses,  because  the  saying  or  making  of  them  requireth  the 
minds  of  men  that  are  dispassionated." 


1 64      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

"  Men  likewise  use,"  replied  Ricardo,  "to  wail  over  hearses 
as  to  sing  verses;  both  are  Verse.  But  laying  this  aside,  tell 
me  what  thou  mindest  to  do  in  this  our  business ;  for  though 
I  understood  not  what  the  Bashaws  treated  in  the  tent  till 
thou  hadst  carried  away  Leonisa,  a  renegado  of  my  master,  a 
Venetian,  told  me  all,  who  was  then  present,  and  understood 
the  Turkish  language  very  well;  and  therefore  above  all 
things  it  is  most  needful  and  requisite  to  set  our  wits  awork 
and  seek  out  some  plot  to  prevent  Leonisa's  coming  to  the 
hands  of  the  Grand  Signior." 

"  That  which  is  fittest  first  of  all  to  be  done,"  answered 
Mahamut,  "  is  that  thou  come  to  be  in  the  power  of  my 
master.  This  being  effected,  we  will  afterwards  consult  on 
that  which  shall  convene  best  for  us." 

Whilst  they  were  thus  talking  came  the  guardian  of  the 
Christian  captives  belonging  to  Hazan  and  carried  Ricardo 
away  with  him.  The  Cadi  returned  with  Hazan  to  the  city, 
who  in  a  few  days  despatched  Ali's  residency,  and  gave  it  him 
rolled  up  and  sealed,  that  he  might  carry  it  along  with  him  to 
Constantinople.  He  taking  his  leave,  prepared  forthwith  to 
set  forward  on  his  journey,  being  very  instant  with  the  Cadi 
that  he  would  hasten  the  sending  of  the  captive,  and  withal 
write  his  letters  to  the  Grand  Signior  in  his  favour,  for  the 
better  furthering  of  his  pretensions.  The  Cadi  promised  him 
he  would,  but  with  treacherous  bowels,  which  were  almost 
turned  into  ashes,  so  were  they  set  on  fire  by  the  inflamed 
love  which  he  bare  to  the  captive. 

Ali  being  gone  full  of  false  hopes,  and  Hazan  abiding 
behind  not  void  of  them,  Mahamut  so  brought  the  business 
about  that  Ricardo  came  into  the  power  of  his  master.  Hours 
and  days  ran  on,  the  time  passed  away,  and  the  longing  desire 
to  see  Leonisa  did  so  press  and  wring  Ricardo  that  he  could 
not  take  one  poor  short  minute  of  rest.  Ricardo  changed  his 
own  name  into  that  of  Mario,  because  his  might  not  come 
to  Leonisa's  ears  before  that  his  eyes  had  seen  her;  and  for 
to  see  her  was  very  hard  and  difficult,  for  that  the  Moors  are 
extremely  jealous,  and  keep  covered  from  all  men  the  faces 
of  their  women ;  howbeit  they  do  not  much  mislike  the  show- 
ing of  them  to  Christians,  which  happily  may  be  because 
being  captives  they  do  not  reckon  them  for  men,  but  slight 
them  as  contemptible  creatures. 


THE  LIBERAL  LOVER  165 

Yet  one  day  it  so  happened  that  the  lady  Halima  saw  her 
slave  Mario,  and  in  seeing  him  took  such  a  good  liking  of 
him  that  he  remained  deeply  engraven  in  her  heart  and 
strongly  fixed  in  her  memory ;  and  peradventure  taking  little 
contentment  in  the  cold  and  weak  embracements  of  her  aged 
husband,  she  the  more  easily  gave  way  to  this  her  evil  desire, 
and  with  the  like  easiness  she  acquainted  Leonisa  therewith, 
whom  she  now  dearly  loved,  and  made  exceeding  much  of, 
for  her  «weet  behaviour  and  discreet  carriage,  and  likewise 
showed  her  great  respect  for  that  she  was  to  be  sent  for  a 
rarity  to  the  Grand  Signior.  She  acquainted  her  how  that 
the  Cadi  had  brought  and  received  into  his  house  a  Christian 
captive  of  so  gentle  an  aspect  and  comely  presence  that  in  her 
eye  he  was  the  handsomest  man  that  ever  she  saw  in  her  life, 
and  that  they  said  he  was  a  chilibi,  that  is  to  say  a  gentleman, 
and  countryman  to  Mahamut  their  renegado,  and  that  she 
knew  not  how  to  give  him  clearly  to  understand  the  good- 
will and  affection  which  she  bare  unto  him,  fearing  lest  that 
the  Christian  should  slight  and  neglect  her  for  declaring  and 
manifesting  her  love  unto  him  at  the  first  sight,  before  she 
had  further  and  better  knowledge  of  him. 

Leonisa  asked  her  what  was  the  captive's  name.  Halima 
told  her  Mario ;  to  whom  Leonisa  replied :  "  If  he  be  a  gentle- 
man, and  of  that  place  they  say  he  is,  certainly  I  should  know 
him;  but  of  this  name  Mario  I  do  not  remember  that  there 
is  any  such  in  Trapana.  But  if  it  shall  stand  with  your  lady- 
ship's pleasure  that  I  may  but  see  him  and  talk  a  while  with 
him,  I  shall  be  able  to  inform  you  both  who  he  is  and  what 
may  be  hoped  from  him." 

"  It  shall  be  so,"  said  Halima;  "  and  on  Friday  next,  when- 
as  the  Cadi  shall  be  at  the  Mezquita,  performing  those  rites 
and  ceremonies  which  are  then  and  there  required  in  their 
devotions  and  adorations,  I  will  take  occasion  to  call  him  in 
hither,  where  leaving  you  two  together,  you  may  talk  alone 
by  yourselves ;  and  if  you  think  fit,  you  may  give  him  some 
inkling  of  my  desires  and  well-wishings  towards  him,  and 
that  you  will  do  me  this  friendly  office  in  the  best  manner 
your  wit  and  discretion  can  devise,  of  both  which  I  have  had 
already  sufficient  trial,  and  therefore  need  not  to  express 
myself  or  press  you  any  further  in  this  particular." 

This  Halima  said  to  Leonisa,  and  within  less  than  two 


1 66     THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

hours  after,  the  Cadi  called  Mahamut  and  Mario  unto  him, 
and  with  no  less  efficacy  than  Halima  had  discovered  her 
heart  to  Leonisa  did  this  enamoured  old-young  man  discover 
his  to  his  two  slaves,  craving  their  counsel  and  advice  what 
course  he  should  take  for  to  keep  the  Christian  to  himself 
and  enjoy  her,  and  yet  comply  with  the  Grand  Signior,  whose 
she  was ;  telling  them  withal  that  he  would  rather  die  a  thou- 
sand deaths  than  deliver  her  up  once  to  the  Great  Turk. 

With  such  affection  did  this  Moor  express  his  passions 
that  they  left  a  deep  impression  and  belief  in  the  hearts  of  his 
two  slaves ;  whose  thoughts  were  fully  bent  to  run  a  contrary 
course  to  that  which  he  imagined.  He  thought  one  thing, 
and  they  another ;  in  the  end,  it  was  concluded  between  them 
that  Mario,  as  being  a  man  of  her  own  nation  and  country, 
howbeit  he  had  told  him  that  he  knew  her  not,  should  take 
in  hand  the  soliciting  her  and  in  declaring  his  fervent  affec- 
tion ;  and  in  case  that  by  his  fair  means  he  could  not  prevail 
and  procure  her  good-will,  he  should  then  use  force,  she 
being  now  in  his  power;  and  this  being  done,  to  give  out 
that  she  was  dead,  and  so  he  should  excuse  his  sending  of  her 
to   Constantinople. 

The  Cadi  rested  wonderful  well  contented  with  this  device 
of  his  slaves,  and  out  of  the  great  joy  which  he  Had  imagined 
to  himself  he  instantly  gave  Mahamut  his  liberty,  bequeath- 
ing besides  unto  him  after  his  death  the  one  half  of  his  goods. 
He  likewise  promised  Mario,  if  he  procured  that  which  he  so 
earnestly  desired,  not  only  his  liberty,  but  good  store  of 
crowns,  wherewith  he  should  return  home  to  his  own  country 
rich,  honoured,  and  contented. 

H  he  were  liberal  in  promising,  his  captives  were  prod- 
igal, offering  to  hale  down  the  moon  from  heaven  to  do  him 
service,  how  much  more  easily  to  draw  Leonisa  to  the  bent 
of  his  bow,  and  to  condescend  to  his  desire,  so  as  Mario  by 
his  leave  might  have  the  conveniency  offered  him  of  speak- 
ing with  her. 

"  I  will  give  him  free  leave  of  access  unto  her,"  answered 
the  Cadi,  "  even  as  often  as  he  will  himself,  if  that  will  ad- 
vance the  business;  for  I  will  so  order  it  that  Halima  shall 
go  hence  to  the  house  of  her  parents,  who  are  Greek  Chris- 
tians, where  she  shall  stay  some  few  days,  or  longer  time  if 
need  be ;  and  she  being  abroad,  I  will  command  my  porter  that 


THE  LIBERAL  LOVER  1 67 

he  suffer  Mario  to  enter  into  the  house,  and  to  have  free  in- 
gress and  egress  as  often  as  he  pleaseth ;  and  I  will  tell  Leo- 
nisa  that  she  may,  if  it  please  her,  talk  and  converse  with  her 
countryman." 

Thus  did  the  wind  begin  to  chop  about  of  Ricardo's  mis- 
fortunes, blowing  with  a  gentle  gale  in  his  favour,  his  master 
not  witting  which  way  he  meant  to  shape  his  course.  This 
appointment  being  made  and  concluded  on  between  these 
three,  tlje  first  that  laid  this  plot  was  Halima,  showing  herself 
a  right  woman,  whose  nature  is  facile,  and  whose  wit  quick 
and  sudden  for  the  effecting  of  that  which  she  hath  a  mind 
unto,  especially  if  her  heart  be  eagerly  set  upon  it.  That  very 
selfsame  day  the  Cadi  came  to  Halima  and  told  her  that  she 
might  when  she  would  go  out  of  the  town  to  visit  her  father 
and  mother,  and  make  merry  with  them  and  the  rest  of  her 
good  friends,  and  to  stay  there  as  long  as  she  listed,  or  till  he 
sent  for  her ;  but  because  her  heart  was  overjoyed  with  those 
good  hopes  which  Leonisa  had  given  her,  she  not  only  would 
not  go  to  her  parents'  house,  nor  yet  to  that  feigned  paradise 
of  Mahomet,  and  therefore  told  him  that  at  this  time  she  had 
no  great  mind  to  go  thither;  when  she  had,  she  would  ac- 
quaint him  therewith;  but  whensoever  she  went,  she  would 
carry  the  captive  Christian  along  with  her.  "  Oh,  by  no 
means,"  replied  the  Cadi,  "  for  it  is  not  fit  that  this  pledge  of 
the  Grand  Signior  should  be  seen  of  any ;  besides,  it  would  do 
her  more  hurt  than  good  to  converse  with  Christians,  since 
that  you  know  that  when  she  comes  into  the  power  of  the 
Grand  Signior  she  must  be  shut  up  in  the  seraglio,  and  turn 
Turk  whether  she  will  or  no." 

"  But  if  she  go  along  with  me,"  replied  Halima,  "  it  mat- 
tereth  not  much  that  she  be  in  my  parents'  house,  nor  that 
she  converse  with  them,  with  whom  myself  converse  much 
more  and  yet  I  cease  not  for  all  that  to  be  a  good  Turk. 
Besides,  the  longest  time  that  I  mean  to  spend  with  them  in 
their  house  shall  be  at  the  farthest  but  four  or  five  days,  for 
the  great  love  which  I  bear  unto  you  will  not  give  me  leave 
to  be  any  longer  absent  and  not  see  you." 

The  Cadi  made  no  reply,  that  he  might  not  give  her  occa- 
sion to  breed  some  suspicion  or  other  in  her  of  his  intention. 

Whilst  this  business  was  a-brewing,  Friday  came,  and  he 
went  to  the  Mezquita,  from  whence  he  could  not  come  forth 


1 68      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

in  almost  four  hours ;  and  Halima  had  scarce  seen  him  put  his 
foot  over  the  threshold  of  his  house  but  she  commanded 
Mario  to  be  called  for  to  come  unto  her ;  but  a  Christian  of 
Corsica  would  not  suffer  him  to  enter,  who  was  then  porter 
and  waited  at  the  gate  of  the  outward  court,  if  Halima  her- 
self had  not  called  out  aloud  unto  him  that  he  should  let  him 
come  in.  And  so  he  entered,  but  much  troubled,  and  trem- 
bling, as  if  he  had  been  to  fight  with  a  whole  army  of  enemies. 

Leonisa  was  in  the  same  dress  and  attire  as  when  she 
entered  the  Bashaws'  tent,  sitting  at  the  foot  of  a  curious 
staircase  of  polished  marble,  which  led  the  way  up  to  a  large 
and  spacious  gallery  rounding  the  whole  house;  her  head 
hung  downward  towards  her  bosom,  resting  itself  on  the 
palm  of  her  right  hand,  and  leaning  her  elbow  on  her  knee ; 
her  eyes  were  turned  another  way  quite  contrary  to  the  door 
by  which  Mario  entered,  so  that  though  he  went  towards  the 
place  where  she  sate  yet  did  she  not  see  him. 

No  sooner  was  Ricardo  let  in  but  he  walked  through  the 
whole  house  with  his  eyes,  yet  could  he  not  perceive  anything 
save  a  dumb  and  still  silence,  till  that  he  cast  his  eye  aside 
where  Leonisa  sate;  instantly  whereupon  so  many  thoughts 
took  hold  on  enamoured  Ricardo  as  did  work  in  him  both 
amazement  and  gladness,  conceiting  himself  to  be  a  thousand 
paces  and  more  distanced  from  his  happiness  and  content- 
ment; he  considered  likewise  with  himself  that  he  was  a 
captive,  and  his  glory  in  another's  power.  Revolving  these 
things  with  himself,  he  made  towards  her  by  a  little  and  a 
little,  and  with  a  fearful  love,  a  joyful  sadness,  and  timor- 
ous courage  (for  such  passions  accompany  true  lovers),  he 
came  by  degrees  to  the  centre  where  his  heart's  joy  was, 
when  by  chance  Leoniga  turned  her  head  aside,  and  fixed 
her  eyes  on  those  of  Mario,  who  looked  very  steadfastly 
on  her. 

But  when  both  their  looks  had  thus  encountered  each 
other,  by  different  effects  [they]  gave  evident  signs  of  that 
which  their  several  souls  felt  within.  Ricardo  stood  stock 
still,  and  could  not  stir  one  foot  farther;  and  Leonisa,  who 
upon  Mahamut's  relation  gave  Ricardo  for  dead,  and  to  see 
him  now  and  that  so  unexpectedly  alive,  full  of  fear  and 
amazement,  without  unfixing  her  eyes  or  turning  her  back, 
she   stepped   up  backward   four  or  five   stairs,  she  blessed 


THE   LIBERAL  LOVER  1 69 

herself  as  if  she  had  seen  some  phantasma  or  a  thing  of 
another  world. 

Ricardo  returned  from  out  his  astonishment,  and  knew 
by  that  which  Leonisa  did  the  true  cause  of  her  fear,  and 
therefore  said  unto  her :  "  It  grieves  me  to  the  very  soul,  O 
of  all  fair  the  fairest,  Leonisa !  that  the  news  did  not  fall  out 
true  which  Mahamut  gave  thee  of  my  death,  for  by  it  I  might 
have  excused  those  fears  which  now  I  have  in  thinking  with 
myself  whether  that  rigour  which  heretofore  thou  hast  used 
towards  me  continue  still  in  the  same  force  and  being.  Quiet 
yourself,  dearest  in  my  love,  and  come  down  again;  and  if 
you  dare  do  that  which  hitherto  you  never  did,  which  is  to 
draw  near  unto  me,  come  and  touch  me,  and  thou  shalt  see 
that  I  am  no  phantastical  body,  no  wandering  ghost.  I  am 
Ricardo,  Leonisa — that  unfortunate  Ricardo  whom  thou  hast 
made  so." 

Whilst  he  was  speaking  this,  Leonisa  puts  her  finger  upon 
her  mouth,  whereby  Ricardo  understood  that  it  was  a  sign 
that  he  should  be  silent  or  speak  more  softly;  and  taking  a 
little  better  heart  unto  him,  he  drew  a  little  nearer  unto  her, 
in  such  a  distance  that  he  might  hear  these  words  come  from 
her:  "  Speak  lower,  Mario  (for  so  methinketh  thou  now  call- 
est  thyself),  and  treat  not  of  any  other  thing  now  save  what 
I  shall  treat  with  thee,  and  consider  withal  that  it  may  so 
happen  th^t  if  we  be  overheard  we  shall  never  see  one  an- 
other any  more.  I  verily  believe  that  Halima  our  mistress 
Hsteneth  to  hear,  if  not  heareth  us;  who,  to  deal  plainly  and 
briefly  with  thee,  hath  told  me  that  she  adores  thee,  and  hath 
entreated  me  to  be  the  intercessoress  of  this  her  desire.  If 
thou  wilt  answer  her  wishes,  it  will  be  better  for  thy  body 
than  thy  soul ;  but  if  thou  wilt  not,  yet  must  thou  feign  that 
thou  dost  embrace  her  love,  as  well  because  I  entreat  thee  so 
to  do  as  also  for  that  the  declared  desires  of  a  woman  ought 
not  uncivilly  to  be  despised  and  utterly  rejected." 

Hereunto  Ricardo  answered :  "  I  did  never  think  nor  ever 
could  imagine,  fairest  Leonisa,  that  there  was  that  thing 
whatsoever  which  you  should  entreat  me  to  do  that  should 
bring  with  it  an  impossibility  of  complying  therewith,  but 
that  which  you  now  require  of  me  hath  disdeceived  me.  Is 
peradventure  man's  will  so  light  that  it  may  be  moved  to  and 
fro,  and  carried  hither  and  thither  whither  the  pleasure  of 


170      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

others  shall  guide  and  direct  it?  or  doth  it  stand  with  the 
honour  and  faith  of  a  gentleman,  or  with  the  repute  of  an 
honest  man,  to  feign  and  dissemble  in  things  of  such  weight 
and  high  a  nature  as  this  is?  If  it  seem  good  unto  you  that 
any  of  these  things  in  this  kind  ought  to  be  or  may  be  done, 
do  that  which  shall  be  most  pleasing  in  your  own  eyes,  be- 
cause you  are  the  sole  mistress  of  my  will.  But  I  now  know 
that  you  likewise  deceive  me  in  this,  since  that  you  never 
rightly  knew  my  will,  and  therefore  know  not  how  to  dispose 
thereof;  but  because  you  may  not  say  that  in  the  first  thing 
you  commanded  me  you  should  not  be  obeyed,  I  will  lose 
somewhat  of  myself,  and  of  being  what  I  ought  to  be;  I 
will  satisfy  your  desire,  and  that  of  Halima,  as  you  say, 
feignedly,  so  that  I  may  thereby  gain  the  happiness  to  see  you ; 
and  therefore  do  you  feign  my  answers  to  your  own  good 
liking,  for  from  henceforth  my  feigned  will  doth  firm  and 
confirm  them.  Now,  in  requital  of  this  office  which  I  do  for 
you,  which  is  in  my  opinion  the  greatest  that  ever  I  can  or 
shall  be  able  to  do,  though  I  should  give  my  soul  anew  unto 
you,  which  I  have  so  often  given  you,  I  beseech  you  that  you 
will  briefly  tell  me  how  you  escaped  from  the  hands  of  the 
pirates,  and  how  you  came  to  those  of  the  Jew  who  so  lately 
sold  you." 

"  The  story  of  my  misfortunes,"  answered  Leonisa,  "  re- 
quires more  leisure  than  time  will  now  permit  to  "relate,  yet 
notwithstanding  I  will  not  leave  you  wholly  unsatisfied. 
Know,  then,  that  the  same  very  evening  we  parted,  Ysuph's 
galley  was  with  a  stiff  and  strong  wind  driven  to  the  same 
isle  of  Pantanalea  where  we  likewise  saw  your  vessel;  but 
ours,  we  being  not  able  to  hinder  it,  ran  remedilessly  upon 
the  rocks.  My  master  then  having  his  destruction  before  his 
eyes,  and  that  there  was  little  or  no  hope  of  safety  left,  with 
all  possible  haste  emptied  two  hogsheads  which  were  full  of 
water,  then  stopped  up  the  bungholes  very  close,  and  having 
bound  the  one  to  the  other  with  good  strong  cords,  he 
seated  me  between  them;  that  done,  he  presently  stripped 
himself,  and  taking  another  hogshead,  spreading  his  arms 
over  it,  and  binding  a  rope  about  his  middle,  causing  the 
same  to  be  fastened  to  the  casks  whereon  I  sate  bound,  with 
great  courage  he  rushed  into  the  sea,  towing  me  after  him. 
I  had  not  the  heart  to  rush  in  after  him,  which  one  of  the 


THE  LIBERAL  LOVER  171 

Turks  seeing,  pushed  me  forward  with  all  his  force,  and 
sent  me  packing  after  Ysuph,  where  I  lay  without  any  sense, 
nor  came  again  to  myself  till  I  found  myself  on  land  in 
the  arms  of  two  Turks,  who  bowing  my  head  and  body 
towards  the  ground,  held  me  so  a  pretty  space,  all  that  while 
great  store  of  salt  water  which  I  had  swallowed  down  coming 
forth  at  my  mouth.  At  last*  I  opened  mine  eyes,  but  as  one 
amazed,  and  looking  about,  who  should  I  see  but  Ysuph  lying 
by  me,  y^ith  his  brains  beaten  out  against  the  rocks  when 
he  had  almost  recovered  the  shore,  where  he  ended  his  life. 
This  I  afterwards  understood  by  the  Turks ;  and  they  likewise 
told  me  that,  taking  hold  of  the  cord,  they  drew  me  on  land, 
without  receiving  any  further  harm  than  what  I  mentioned 
before  unto  you ;  of  all  the  whole  company  only  eight  persons 
escaped  drowning.  Eight  days  we  abode  in  the  island,  the 
Turks  using  me  with  as  much  respect  as  if  I  had  been  their 
sister,  if  not  more.  We  kept  ourselves  close  in  a  cave,  the 
Turks  fearing  that  if  they  should  be  espied,  the  Christians 
which  had  the  command  of  the  fort  which  is  in  the  island 
would  sally  forth  upon  them  and  take  them  captive.  They 
sustained  themselves  with  wet  biscuits  which  the  sea  had  cast 
upon  the  shore  from  out  the  broken  bins  of  the  galley,  which 
they  went  forth  to  gather  up  by  night,  that  they  might  not 
be  discovered.  Fortune  had  so  ordered  it  for  my  great  ill 
that  the  fort  was  without  a  captain,  who  died  but  a  few  days 
before;  and  in  all  the  fort  there  were  not  above  twenty  sol- 
diers. This  we  came  to  know  by  a  youth  which  was  capti- 
vated by  the  Turks,  who  came  down  from  thence  to  gather 
cockles  by  the  seaside.  At  the  eight  days'  end  there  arrived 
on  that  coast  a  vessel  of  the  Moors,  which  they  call  Carma- 
mucales;  the  Turks  saw  it  coming  in,  and  that  they  lay  at 
anchor  a  little  off  the  land,  and  so  made  towards  them,  making 
such  signs  to  the  vessel,  which  was  not  far  off,  that  they  who 
were  in  her  knew  they  were  Turks  that  called  unto  them. 
Thereupon  they  sent  out  their  cock-boat,  and  they  recounted 
unto  them  their  distress,  and  they  received  them  into  their 
bark,  wherein  came  an  exceeding  rich  Jew,  a  merchant;  and 
all  the  lading  of  the  vessel,  or  the  most  part  of  it,  was  his, 
being  fraughted  with  carpets  and  hides  and  other  commodi- 
ties which  they  bring  from  Barbary  to  the  Levant.  In  the 
said  vessel  the  Turks  went  for  Tripoli,  and  in  that  voyage 


172      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

they  sold  me  to  the  Jew  for  two  thousand  ducats — an  ex- 
cessive price,  if  his  love  towards  me  had  not  made  him  so 
liberal,  which  the  Jew  afterwards  discovered  unto  me.  Leav- 
ing the  Turks  after  all  this  in  Tripoli,  the  vessel  tacked 
about  to  perform  her  voyage,  and  the  Jew  in  most  impudent 
manner  fell  to  soliciting  of  me;  but  I  showed  him  such  a 
countenance  as  his  filthy  desireS  deserved.  Seeing  himself 
then  in  despair  of  obtaining  his  lustful  ends,  he  resolved  to 
rid  himself  of  me  upon  the  first  occasion  that  should  offer 
itself  unto  him.  And  it  coming  to  his  knowledge  that  the 
two  Bashaws,  AH  and  Hazan,  were  in  this  island,  where  he 
might  sell  and  vent  his  merchandise  as  well  as  in  Xio,^ 
whither  he  was  bound,  he  came  hither  with  intention  to  sell 
me  to  one  of  the  two  Bashaws,  and  for  this  cause  put  me 
in  this  dress  and  wear  wherein  you  now  see  me,  for  to 
affectionate  them  the  more  unto  me  who  should  buy  me.  I 
am  given  to  understand  that  this  Cadi  hath  bought  me  with 
purpose  to  carry  me  for  a  present  to  the  Great  Turk,  whereof 
I  am  not  a  little  afraid.  Here  I  came  to  know  thy  feigned 
death ;  and  I  must  now  tell  thee,  if  thou  wilt  believe  me,  and 
believe  me  thou  mayst,  that  it  grieved  me  to  the  very  soul, 
and  that  I  did  more  envy  than  pity  thee,  yet  not  out  of  any 
ill  will  that  I  bare  unto  thee,  though  I  did  not  answer  thy 
love  according  to  thy  expectation,  for  I  shall  never  be  in- 
grateful  and  disrespective  where  I  have  found  so  much  love 
and  respect,  but  because  thou  hadst  then  made  an  end  of  thy 
life's  tragedy." 

"  Dear  Leonisa,"  answered  Ricardo,  "  you  say  not  amiss 
herein,  if  death  had  not  hindered  the  happiness  of  my  coming 
again  to  see  you,  esteeming  more  this  instant  of  glory  which 
I  enjoy  in  seeing  you  than  any  other  happiness,  saving  that 
which  is  eternal,  which  either  in  life  or  in  death  might  assure 
unto  me  my  desire.  The  Cadi,  now  my  master,  into  whose 
power  I  am  come  by  no  less  various  accidents  than  yours, 
bears  the  like  fervent  affection  unto  you  as  Halima  doth  to 
me ;  he  hath  made  choice  of  me  to  be  the  interpreter  of  his 
thoughts.  I  entertained  the  motion,  not  for  to  do  him  any 
pleasure  thereby,  but  that  I  might  gain  the  commodity  and 
conveniency  of  speaking  with  you,  to  the  end  that  you  may 

»  A'lc;— Chios.— [Ed.] 


THE  LIBERAL  LOVER  I73 

see,  Leonisa,  to  what  hard  terms  our  misfortunes  have  brought 
us — you  to  be  the  means  of  working  an  impossibility  (for  you 
know  my  mind  touching  the  motion  you  made  unto  me),  and 
mc  to  be  likewise  set  awork  about  such  a  business  as  I  least 
dreamt  of,  and  for  which  I  would  give,  rather  than  obtain 
it,  my  life,  which  now  I  esteem  according  to  its  high  worth 
and  value  since  that  it  hath  had  the  happiness  to  see  you." 

"  I  know  not  what  to  say  unto  thee,  Ricardo,"  replied 
Leonisa,  "  nor  how  we  shall  be  able  to  get  out  of  this  intri- 
cate labyrinth  whereinto,  as  thou  sayest,  our  hard  fortune 
hath  brought  us;  only  I  know  to  say  thus  much,  that  we 
must  be  driven  in  this  business  to  use  that  which  is  contrary 
to  our  condition  and  hateful  to  honest  minds,  to  wit,  dissem- 
bling and  deceit;  and  therefore  say  unto  thee,  that  I  will 
acquaint  Halima  with  some  such  words  delivered  by  thee  that 
shall  rather  entertain  her  with  hopes  than  drive  her  to  de- 
spair. Thou  likewise  shalt  say  of  me  to  the  Cadi  that  which 
thou  shalt  think  most  convenient  for  the  securing  of  mine 
honour  and  the  deceiving  of  him;  and  since  that  I  put  mine 
honour  into  thy  hands,  thou  mayst  assure  thyself  that  it  is 
yet  as  true  and  entire  as  ever,  though  the  many  ways  which 
I  have  gone  and  the  many  assaults  which  I  have  endured 
might  call  it  into  question,  though  you  nor  any  else,  without 
great  injustice,  can  make  the  least  doubt  of  it.  For  our 
speaking  and  conversing  each  with  other  will  be,  by  their 
means,  most  facile  and  easy;  always  presupposed  that  you 
never  once  open  your  mouth  nor  treat  aught  with  me  which 
shall  any  way  appertain  to  your  declared  pretension,  for  in 
what  hour  you  shall  do  that,  in  the  same  you  shall  take  your 
leave  of  seeing  me  any  more.  For  I  would  not  have  thee 
think  that  my  value  is  of  so  little  worth,  and  of  so  few 
quilates,^  that  captivity  shall  work  that  with  me  which  lib- 
erty could  not  do.  I  will  be,  by  Heaven's  favour,  like  gold, 
which  the  longer  it  is  in  the  chrysol  ^  comes  forth  thence  the 
purer  and  the  finer.  Rest  satisfied  and  content  thyself  with 
that  which  I  have  already  said  unto  thee,  lest  the  very  sight 
of  thee  should,  as  it  hath  done  heretofore,  cause  a  distance  in 
me,  if  not  a  loathing;  for  I  would  have  thee  to  know,  Ricardo, 

*  Qtiilates — carats. — [Ed.] 
'  Chrysol— zx\xz\\i\^. — [Ed.] 


174      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

that  I  always  held  thee  to  be  too  rough  and  arrogant,  and 
to  presume  somewhat  more  of  myself  than  was  fitting.  I 
confess  likewise  that  I  may  be  deceived ;  and  it  may  be  that, 
making  this  trial  of  thee,  experience  will  set  the  truth  before 
mine  eyes,  and  tell  me  I  was  deceived,  and  being  put  out  of 
this  error  I  may  be  more  kind  but  never  less  honest.  Go, 
get  you  gone,  for  I  fear  me  Halima  may  have  overheard  us, 
who  hath  some  understanding  of  our  Christian  language — 
at  least  of  that  mingled  speech  which  is  used  whereby  we  all 
understand  one  another." 

"  You  say  very  well,  mistress  of  my  heart,"  answered  Ri- 
cardo,  "  and  I  infinitely  thank  you,  and  take  in  exceeding 
good  part  this  disdeceiving  which  you  have  given  me,  and 
make  as  high  esteem  thereof  as  of  the  favour  you  do  me  in 
suffering  me  to  see  you.  And,  as  you  say,  experience  perad- 
venture  will  make  known  unto  you  how  plain  and  downright 
my  condition  is,  and  how  meek  and  humble  my  disposition, 
especially  for  to  adore  you ;  and  had  you  not  put  a  bound  and 
limit  to  my  carriage  and  treating  with  you,  yet  should  it  have 
been  so  fair  and  so  honest  towards  you  as  you  cannot  wish 
or  desire  to  have  it  better.  Touching  that  which  concerneth 
the  entertaining  of  the  Cadi,  take  you  no  care  of  that,  leave 
it  to  me;  do  you  the  like  with  Halima.  And,  by  the  way,  I 
would  have  you,  lady,  to  know  that  since  I  have  seen  you 
there  is  bred  in  me  such  a  strong  hope  and  confidence  as  as- 
sureth  me  that  it  shall  not  be  long  before  we  procure  our 
desired  liberty,  and  so  God  have  you  in  His  keeping.  At  an- 
other time  and  better  leisure  I  shall  relate  unto  you  the  revo- 
lutions, the  turnings  and  windings  by  which  Fortune  hath 
brought  me  to  this  estate,  after  that  she  had  put  us  asunder 
and  severed  me  from  your  sight." 

With  this  they  took  their  leaves  each  of  other,  Leonisa 
remaining  well  contented  and  satisfied  with  Ricardo's  plain 
proceeding,  and  he  the  most  joyful  man  in  the  world  that  he 
had  heard  one  word  from  Leonisa's  mouth  without  tartness. 

Halima  had  shut  up  herself  in  her  oratory,  praying  to  her 
prophet  Mahomet  that  Leonisa  might  bring  her  a  good  de- 
spatch of  that  business  which  she  had  recommended  unto  her. 
The  Cadi  he  was  in  the  Mezquita,  recompensing  with  his 
desires  those  of  his  wife,  they  keeping  him  very  solicitous, 
as  wholly  depending  on  the  answer  which  he  hoped  to  hear 


THE  LIBERAL  LOVEft  t;^ 

from  his  slave  to  whose  charge  he  had  committed  his  talking 
with  Leonisa ;  and  that  he  might  better  come  to  have  some 
speech  with  her,  Mahamut  should  afford  him  opportunity 
though  that  Halima  were  in  the  house. 

Leonisa  increased  in  Halima  her  lewd  lust  and  filthy  de- 
sire by  giving  her  very  good  hopes  that  Mario  would  conde- 
scend to  her  will  and  do  whatsoever  she  would  command  him, 
but  telling  her  withal  that  she  must  have  patience  till  two 
moons  were  first  passed  over,  before  which  time  he  could  not 
compl)^  with  that  which  he  much  more  desired  than  herself; 
and  this  term  he  entreated  of  her  that  he  might  make  his 
prayers  and  supplications  unto  God  for  the  freeing  of  him 
from  his  captivity  and  restoring  him  again  to  his  former  lib- 
erty. Halima  contented  herself  with  the  excuse  and  relation 
of  her  beloved  Ricardo,  whom  she  would  free  from  his 
slavery  before  the  deputed  time,  so  as  he  would  accomplish 
her  desire;  and  therefore  entreated  Leonisa  that  she  would 
treat  with  him,  and  see  if  she  could  work  him  to  dispense 
with  the  said  time  and  to  cut  off  all  delays,  and  she  would 
furnish  him  with  as  much  money  as  the  Cadi  should  require 
of  him  for  his  ransom. 

Now,  before  that  Ricardo  returned  an  answer  to  his  mas- 
ter, he  consulted  with  Mahamut  what  answer  he  should  make 
him ;  and  they  agreed  between  them  to  tell  him  that  the  case 
was  desperate,  no  hope  of  winning  her,  and  that  as  soon  as 
possible  he  could  he  should  carry  her  away  to  Constantinople, 
and  that  in  the  way  thitherward,  either  by  fair  means  or  by 
force,  obtain  his  desire ;  and  as  touching  the  inconvenience 
which  might  offer  itself  for  his  complying  with  the  Grand 
Signior,  he  should  do  well  to  buy  him  another  slave,  and 
in  the  voyage  to  feign  and  cause  it  to  be  given  out  that  Leo- 
nisa was  fallen  sick,  and  making  our  advantage  of  a  dark 
night,  we  may  cast  the  bought  Christian  overboard  into  the 
sea,  saying  that  it  was  Leonisa  the  captive  of  the  Grand 
Signior  that  was  dead ;  and  that  may  be  done,  and  should  be 
done,  in  such  manner  that  the  truth  thereof  should  never  be 
discovered,  and  so  remain  blameless  with  the  Grand  Signior 
and  fulfil  his  own  will,  and  that  for  the  continuation  of  his 
pleasure  they  would  afterwards  devise  some  convenient  course 
that  should  make  all  safe  and  sure. 

This  poor  man,  this  old  Cadi,  his  love  to  Leonisa  made 


176      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

him  so  blind  that  had  they  told  him  a  thousand  other  greater 
unlikelihoods,  so  as  they  were  directed  to  the  fulfilling  of  his 
hopes,  he  would  have  believed  them  all ;  how  much  more  when 
it  seemed  unto  him  that  all  which  they  said  was  good  and 
current,  and  in  a  very  fair  way  promising  prosperous  suc- 
cess. And  so  indeed  it  might  have  proved  if  the  intention 
of  these  his  two  counsellors  had  not  been  to  make  themselves 
masters  of  the  vessel,  and  to  make  an  end  of  him  and  his 
foolish  thoughts  together. 

But  another  difficulty  offered  itself  to  the  Cadi,  which 
in  his  own  opinion  was  greater  than  all  the  rest,  it  running 
still  in  his  head  that  his  wife  Halima  would  not  let  him  go 
to  Constantinople  unless  he  would  carry  her  with  him.  But 
presently  they  did  facilitate  that,  telling  him  that  instead  of 
the  Christian  which  they  were  to  buy,  and  must  die  and  be 
turned  overboard,  instead  of  Leonisa,  Halima  would  serve 
excellently  for  that  purpose,  and  none  better,  of  whom  he 
desired  to  be  freed  more  than  from  death.  With  the  same 
facility  as  he  entertained  this  in  his  thought,  with  the  like  did 
Mahamut  and  Ricardo  yield  thereunto. 

And  being  firmly  resolved  thereon,  that  very  day  the 
Cadi  breaks  with  Halima  about  the  voyage  which  he  thought 
to  make  to  Constantinople,  to  carry  the  Christian  to  the 
Grand  Signior,  by  whose  liberality  he  hoped  he  should  be 
made  the  great  Cadi  of  Cairo,  or  of  Constantinople.  Halima 
told  him  that  she  liked  very  well  of  his  determination,  think- 
ing that  he  would  leave  Ricardo  at  home ;  but  when  the  Cadi 
had  certified  her  that  he  would  carry  him  along  with  him, 
and  likewise  Mahamut,  she  began  to  change  her  opinion,  and 
to  disadvise  him  from  that  which  before  she  had  advised  him 
to  do;  in  fine,  she  concluded  that  if  he  did  not  take  her  with 
him,  she  would  in  no  hand  give  way  to  his  going.  The  Cadi 
would  not  cross  her,  but  if  she  would  needs  have  it  so,  her 
will  should  be  his;  thinking  then  with  himself  that  he  would 
quickly  shake  off  that  yoke  which  lay  so  heavy  on  his  neck. 

All  this  while  Hazan  Bashaw  was  not  careless  in  soliciting 
the  Cadi  to  deliver  up  the  slave  unto  him,  offering  him  moun- 
tains of  gold,  having  besides  given  him  Ricardo  before  for 
nothing,  whose  ransom  he  prized  at  two  thousand  crowns. 
All  these  gifts  and  promises  wrought  no  further  good  with 
the  Cadi  than  to  make  him  hasten  the  more  his  departure; 


THE  LIBERAL  LOVER  177 

and  so,  solicited  by  his  desire  and  by  the  importunities  of 
Hazan,  together  with  those  of  Halima,  who  likewise  built 
vain  hopes  in  the  air,  within  twenty  days  he  had  fitted  and 
rigged  up  a  brigantine  of  fifteen  banks,  manning  it  with  vol- 
untary soldiers,  lusty  young  able  men,  partly  Moors,  partly 
Greek  Christians.  Therein  he  embarked  all  his  wealth,  and 
Halima  left  not  aught  at  home  in  her  house  of  any  moment, 
and  entreated  her  husband  that  he  would  give  her  leave  to 
carry  with  her  her  father  and  mother,  that  they  might  see 
Constantinople.  Halima's  intention  was  the  same  with  that 
of  Mahamut,  meaning  to  deal  with  him  and  Ricardo  that 
when  they  were  on  their  voyage  they  should  make  themselves 
masters  of  the  brigantine  and  go  away  with  it ;  but  she  would 
not  open  her  mind  nor  declare  herself  unto  them  till  she  saw 
herself  embarked,  and  this,  too,  with  a  full  purpose  and  reso- 
lution to  go  to  the  Christian's  country,  and  to  return  to  that 
religion  which  she  had  first  been  of,  and  to  be  married  to 
Ricardo ;  being  verily  persuaded  that,  carrying  such  store  of 
wealth  along  with  her,  and  turning  Christian,  he  would  not 
refuse  to  take  her  to  wife. 

In  this  interim  Ricardo  had  speech  with  Leonisa,  and 
declared  unto  her  his  whole  intention;  and  she  again  ac- 
quainted him  with  Halima's  purpose,  who  had  imparted  the 
same  unto  her.  They  enjoined  each  other  secrecy,  and  rec- 
ommending themselves  to  God,  they  stood  expecting  the  day 
of  their  departure;  which  being  come,  Hazan  went  forth, 
accompanying  them  with  all  his  soldiers  to  the  seaside,  and 
did  not  leave  them  till  they  had  hoised  sail,  neither  did  he 
take  off  his  eye  from  the  brigantine  till  he  had  quite  lost  the 
sight  of  it;  and  it  seemed  that  the  air  and  breath  of  those 
sighs  which  the  enamoured  Moor  vented  forth  did  fill  and 
drive  forward  with  greater  force  the  sails  which  wafted  away 
his  soul.  But  he,  as  one  who  a  long  time  lived  in  such  tor- 
ment, oppressed  by  love  that  he  could  take  no  rest,  thinking 
on  that  which  he  was  to  do,  that  he  might  not  die  by  the 
hands  of  his  violent  desires,  omitted  not  to  put  that  pres- 
ently in  execution  which  with  long  deliberation  and  a  reso- 
lute determination  he  had  forecasted;  and  therefore  in  a 
vessel  of  seventeen  banks  which  he  had  made  ready  in  an- 
other port,  he  clapped  into  her  fifty  soldiers,  all  his  friends 
and  acquaintance,  whom  he  had  obliged  unto  him  by  many 


178      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

gifts  and  promises,  giving  them  in  charge  that  they  should 
put  forth  to  sea,  set  upon  and  take  the  Cadi's  brigantine  and 
all  the  wealth  that  was  in  her,  putting  to  the  edge  of  the 
sword  as  many  as  went  in  her,  save  Leonisa  the  captive,  for 
she  was  the  only  spoil  that  he  looked  after,  prizing  her  above 
all  the  other  riches  and  treasure  which  were  in  the  vessel ;  he 
likewise  gave  order  that  they  should  sink  her,  so  that  not 
any  one  thing  might  remain  that  might  give  any  the  least 
sign  or  token  of  their  perdition.  The  covetousness  of  the 
spoil  added  wings  to  their  feet  and  courage  to  their  hearts, 
howbeit  they  knew  very  well  that  they  should  find  but  little 
resistance  in  those  of  the  brigantine,  in  regard  that  they  were 
disarmed  and  without  any  the  least  suspicion  that  any  such 
unexpected  accident  should  befall  them. 

Two  days  had  the  brigantine  now  gone  in  her  intended 
course,  which  to  the  Cadi  seemed  two  ages ;  for  the  very  first 
day  of  all  he  would  fain  have  put  in  execution  his  determina- 
tion, but  his  slaves  advised  him  that  the  business  must  first 
be  so  carried  that  Leonisa  should  fall  sick,  to  give  thereby 
some  colour  to  her  death,  and  that  this  would  require  some 
days  of  sickness.  He  did  not  like  of  that,  but  would  have 
given  it  out  that  she  died  suddenly,  and  so  quickly  make  an 
end  of  what  they  had  projected  by  despatching  his  wife  out 
of  hand,  that  he  might  allay  the  heat  of  that  fire  which  by 
little  and  little  went  consuming  his  bowels ;  but  in  conclusion 
he  must  condescend  to  that  which  the  other  two  thought  fit. 

Now,  in  this  meanwhile  Halima  had  declared  her  intent 
to  Mahamut  and  Ricardo,  and  they  were  ready  to  put  it  in 
execution  as  soon  as  they  had  doubled  the  points  of  Alexan- 
dria or  passed  by  the  castles  of  Natolia.  But  the  Cadi  was 
so  hasty  with  them  and  so  sharp-set  that  they  promised  to 
perform  the  task  they  undertook  upon  the  first  occasion  that 
should  offer  itself  unto  them.  And  one  day,  at  the  end  of  six 
which  they  had  sailed  [on  their]  voyage,  and  that  now  it 
seemed  to  the  Cadi  that  the  feigning  of  Leonisa's  sickness 
was  sufficient,  he  did  importune  his  slaves  that  they  should 
conclude  the  next  day  with  Halima,  and  throw  her,  wrapped 
up  in  a  winding-sheet,  into  the  sea,  saying  it  was  the  captive 
of  the  Grand  Signior. 

The  day  afterwards  began  to  break  wherein,  according  to 
the  intention  of  Mahamut  and  Ricardo,  was  to  be  the  accom- 


THE  LIBERAL  LOVER  179 

plishment  of  their  desires  or  the  end  of  their  days;  when  lo, 
they  might  descry  a  vessel  which  with  sail  and  oar  came 
chasing  them.  They  were  afraid  that  they  were  Christian 
pirates,  from  whom  neither  the  one  nor  the  other  could  ex- 
pect any  good ;  for  being  such,  the  Moors  feared  to  be  made 
captives,  and  the  Christians  that,  though  they  should  get  their 
liberty,  they  should  lose  their  goods  and  be  stripped  of  all  they 
had.  But  Mahamut  and  Ricardo  contented  themselves  with 
Leonisa's  and  their  own  liberty;  yet  notwithstanding  this 
imagined*  hope,  they  much  feared  the  insolency  of  your  rov- 
ers at  sea,  for  they  that  follow  such  kind  of  exercises  and 
make  a  common  trade  thereof,  be  they  of  what  religion  or 
nation  soever,  they  usually  are  cruelly  minded  and  of  an 
insolent  condition. 

They  prepared  to  defend  themselves,  without  forsaking 
their  oars,  and  doing  all  that  might  be  done  in  such  a  case  of 
necessity  and  so  sudden.  It  was  not  long,  a  matter  of  two  or 
three  hours,  little  more  or  less,  that  they  drew  nearer  and 
nearer,  till  they  came  within  cannon-shot  of  them.  Seeing 
this,  they  strook  sail,  loosed  their  oars,  betook  themselves  to 
their  arms,  and  expected  their  coming. 

Howbeit,  the  Cadi  bid  them  be  of  good  cheer  and  fear 
nothing,  for  the  vessel  was  Turkish,  and  would  not  do  them 
any  harm.  He  commanded  that  a  white  flag  in  token  of 
peace  should  presently  be  set  up,  placing  it  on  the  yard-sail 
of  the  poop,  because  they  might  the  better  discern  it,  who 
being  already  blinded  with  covetousness  and  greediness  of 
gain  made  up  with  great  fury  to  board  the  ill-defended 
brigantine. 

While  this  was  in  acting,  Mahamut  by  chance  turned  his 
head  aside,  and  perceived  that  from  the  westward  there  was 
a  galley  coming  up,  and  to  his  thinking  of  some  twenty 
banks,  whereof  he  certified  the  Cadi ;  and  some  Christians 
which  wrought  at  the  oar  said  that  the  vessel  they  had  de- 
scried was  of  Christians ;  all  which  did  but  double  their  con- 
fusion and  fear,  holding  them  in  suspense,  not  knowing  what 
to  do,  fearing  and  hoping  such  success  as  God  should  be 
pleased  to  give  them. 

By  this  time  I  conceive  that  the  Cadi  would  have  given 
(being  in  that  strait  that  now  he  was),  to  have  found  himself 
again  in  Nicosia,  all  the  hopes  of  his  pleasure,  so  great  was 


iSo      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

the  confusion  and  amazement  wherein  he  was,  though  he 
were  quickly  put  out  of  it  by  that  first  vessel,  which  without 
respect  to  the  flag  of  peace,  or  that  which  was  due  to  their 
religion,  did  set  upon  that  of  the  Cadi  with  such  force  and 
fury  that  they  wanted  very  little  of  sinking  it.  The  Cadi 
presently  knew  those  that  had  thus  set  upon  them,  for  his 
eyes  gave  him  assured  notice  that  the  soldiers  were  of  Ni- 
cosia. He  soon  guessed  the  cause  of  their  coming,  and  by 
whom  set  awork,  and  gave  himself  for  a  lost  and  dead  man ; 
and  had  it  not  been  that  the  soldiers  gave  themselves  more 
to  the  spoil  than  the  slaughter,  not  a  man  of  them  had 
escaped  alive. 

But  when  they  were  most  busy  about  their  pillaging  a 
Turk  cried  out  aloud  unto  them,  saying :  "  Arm,  arm,  fellow 
soldiers  !  for  a  vessel  of  Christians  is  coming  upon  us."  And 
he  had  good  reason  to  say  so,  because  the  vessel  which  the 
Cadi's  brigantine  descried  bare  Christian  flags,  and  very 
fiercely  did  set  upon  that  of  Hazan;  but  before  they  came 
to  grapple  with  her  one  from  the  prow  demanded  of  them  in 
the  Turkish  language  what  vessel  that  was,  and  whence? 
They  made  answer  that  it  was  Kazan's  the  Bashaw,  Viceroy 
of  Cyprus.  "  Why  then,"  replied  the  Turk,  "  you  being 
Musolimans,  have  set  upon  and  robbed  this  vessel  wherein 
we  know  goes  the  Cadi  of  Nicosia  ?  "  Whereunto  they  an- 
swered that  they  knew  no  other  cause  save  that  they  were 
commanded  to  take  her,  and  that  they  as  being  his  soldiers, 
in  obedience  unto  him,  had  done  his  command. 

The  captain  of  the  second  vessel  who  came  in  a  Christian 
disguise  resting  satisfied  with  that  which  he  desired  to  know, 
fell  off  from  that  of  Hazan,  and  made  towards  that  of  the 
Cadi ;  and  with  the  very  first  volley  of  shot  he  gave  them  he 
killed  ten  of  those  Turks  that  were  in  her,  and  presently 
after  entered  her  with  great  courage  and  speed.  But  they  had 
scarce  set  their  feet  on  the  hatches  but  the  Cadi  instantly 
knew  that  it  was  not  a  Christian  that  had  thus  set  upon  him, 
but  Ali  Bashaw,  who  was  in  love  with  Leonisa,  who  with  the 
same  intent  as  Hazan  stood  waiting  his  coming,  and  that  he 
might  not  be  known  had  clad  his  soldiers  like  Christians, 
to  the  end  that  by  this  device  his  theft  might  not  be  dis- 
covered. 

The  Cadi,  who  knew  the  intentions  of  these  lovers  and 


THE  LIBERAL  LOVER  i8l 

traitors,  began  in  a  loud  voice  to  vent  his  malice,  saying: 
"  What  is  this  thou  doest,  thou  traitor  Ali  Bashaw,  that  thou 
being  a  Musoliman,  that  is  to  say  a  Turk,  settest  upon  me 
as  a  Christian?  And  you  traitors,  Hazan's  soldiers,  what  a 
devil  hath  moved  you  to  commit  so  great  an  outrage,^  for  that 
to  fulfil  the  lascivious  and  lustful  appetite  of  him  who  sent 
you  hither  will  thus  go  against  your  natural  lord?" 

Upon  these  words  of  his  all  of  them  silenced  their  arms, 
no  more  clattering  was  heard,  and  looking  one  upon  another, 
they  came  at  last  to  know  each  other,  because  they  had  all 
of  them  been  soldiers  of  one  and  the  same  captain,  and  served 
under  one  and  the  same  banner;  and  being  now  abashed  at 
the  Cadi's  word,  and  ashamed  of  their  own  bad  act,  the  points 
of  their  cimeters  were  blunted  and  the  edges  of  them  dulled, 
their  courages  were  quelled  and  their  minds  mightily  dis- 
mayed. Only  Ali  shut  his  eyes  and  ears  to  all  that  he  saw  or 
heard,  and  falling  upon  the  Cadi,  he  gave  him  such  a  cut  in 
the  head  that  if  the  blow  had  not  been  borne  off  by  a  hundred 
yards  of  calico  wrapped  about  it,  doubtless  he  had  cleft  his 
head  asunder,  yet  it  strook  him  down  between  the  banks  of 
the  vessel ;  and  being  fallen,  the  Cadi  said :  "  O  cruel  rene- 
gado,  enemy  of  our  Prophet !  and  is  it  possible  that  there  is 
none  that  will  chastise  thy  cruelty  and  this  thy  great  in- 
solency  ?  How,  accursed  as  thou  art !  durst  thou  presume  to 
lay  hands  and  draw  thy  sword  against  thy  Cadi,  and  a  min- 
ister of  Mahomet?  " 

These  words  added  force  to  force,  and  more  fuel  to  the 
former  fire ;  the  which  being  heard  by  Kazan's  soldiers,  and 
moved  with  fear  that  Ali  his  soldiers  would  take  their  prey 
from  them  (which  they  held  yet  to  be  theirs),  they  determined 
to  put  all  upon  adventure;  and  one  beginning  first,  and  all 
the  rest  following  after,  they  set  upon  the  soldiers  of  Ali 
with  such  haste,  rancour,  and  courage  that  in  a  little  while 
they  behaved  themselves  so  manfully  that  though  they  were 
more  by  many  than  they,  they  reduced  them  to  a  very  small 
number;  but  they  which  remained  of  them  took  heart  unto 
them,  leaving  scarce  four  of  Kazan's  men  alive,  and  those 
very  sorely  wounded. 

Ricardo  and  Mahamut  stood  looking  on,  who  ever  and 
anon  put  their  heads  out  of  the  scupper-holes  of  the  poop 
cabin  to  see  what  would  become  of  this  great  fray,  which  on 


l82  THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

both  sides  was  so  hotly  pursued;  and  seeing  that  the  Turks 
were  in  a  manner  all  slain,  and  they  that  were  alive  sore 
wounded,  and  how  easily  they  might  make  an  end  of  all  of 
them,  he  called  to  Mahamut,  and  two  kinsmen  of  Halima 
whom  she  had  wrought  to  embark  themselves  with  her,  that 
they  might  assist  in  going  away  with  the  vessel,  and  with 
their  help  and  her  father's,  taking  up  the  cimeters  of  the 
slain,  they  showed  themselves  upon  the  deck,  crying  out: 
"  Liberty  !  liberty !  "  and  being  aided  by  the  voluntaries  who 
were  Greek  Christians,  with  a  great  deal  of  ease  and  without 
receiving  any  one  wound,  they  cut  the  throats  of  them  all; 
and  boarding  Ali's  galley,  which  they  found  without  defence, 
they  took  it,  with  all  that  was  therein.  Of  those  that  died 
in  the  second  encounter  one  of  the  first  was  AH  Bashaw, 
whom  a  Turk  in  revenge  of  the  Cadi  ran  through  the  body. 

Being  now  masters  of  all  the  three  vessels,  they  consulted 
what  was  now  best  to  be  done.  In  the  end  they  yielded  to 
Ricardo's  advice,  which  was,  that  they  should  take  out  all 
things  that  were  of  any  price  or  value,  both  in  their  own  and 
Kazan's  vessel,  and  stow  them  in  Ali's  galley,  which  was 
a  vessel  of  far  greater  burden  and  fitter  to  take  in  the  lading, 
and  make  good  their  voyage;  and  the  rather,  for  that  the 
rowers  were  Christians,  who  resting  well  contented  with 
their  recovered  liberty,  and  with  many  other  good  things 
which  Ricardo  liberally  shared  among  them,  offered  to  carry 
him  to  Trapana,  and  if  need  were,  even  to  the  end  of  the 
world. 

This  being  thus  ordered,  Mahamut  and  Ricardo,  full  of 
joy  for  this  their  good  success,  went  to  the  Moor  Halima  and 
told  her  that  if  she  would  return  to  Cyprus  they  would  man 
her  own  vessel  with  good  valiant  voluntaries,  and  give  her 
the  one  half  of  the  goods  which  she  had  embarked.  But 
she,  who  notwithstanding  this  so  great  a  calamity  had  not 
yet  lost  that  itching  love  and  amorous  affection  which  she 
bare  to  Ricardo,  told  him  that  she  would  go  with  him  to  the 
land  of  Christians,  whereof  her  parents  were  wondrous  glad. 

The  Cadi  was  by  this  time  come  to  himself,  and  having 
dressed  and  bound  up  his  wound  as  their  haste  and  the  place 
would  permit,  they  likewise  told  him  that  he  should  make 
choice  of  one  of  these  two,  either  to  go  with  them  to  the 
land  of  Christians,  or  to  return  in  the  same  vessel  he  set 


THE  LIBERAL  LOVER  183 

forth  to  Nicosia.  Whereunto  he  answered,  that  since  his 
ill  fortune  had  brought  him  to  such  bad  terms,  he  would 
rather  accept  of  the  liberty  which  they  gave  him,  and  that 
he  would  go  to  Constantinople  and  make  his  complaint  to  the 
Grand  Signior  of  the  great  and  grievous  wrong  which  from 
Hazan  and  Ali  he  had  received.  But  when  he  knew  that 
Halima  would  leave  him  and  turn  Christian,  he  was  almost 
ready  to  run  mad. 

In  conclusion,  they  manned  his  own  vessel,  and  furnished 
him  with  ^11  things  necessary  for  his  voyage,  and  gave  him 
some  chequines^  of  these  which  once  had  been  his  own. 
And  so,  having  taken  his  leave  of  all  of  them,  being  re- 
solved to  return  to  Nicosia,  he  besought  before  he  had  hoised 
sail  that  Leonisa  would  do  him  the  favour  to  embrace  him, 
for  that  grace  and  honour  she  therein  should  show  him 
would  of  itself  be  sufficient  to  make  him  forget  all  his  mis- 
fortune. All  of  them  entreated  Leonisa  to  confer  that  favour 
on  one  that  loved  her  so  well,  since  in  so  doing  she  should 
not  go  against  the  decorum  and  decency  of  her  honesty.  Leo- 
nisa yielded  to  their  request;  and  the  Cadi  further  entreated 
of  her  that  she  would  but  lay  her  hands  upon  his  head, 
for  that  he  hoped  that  imposition  would  heal  his  wound. 
Leonisa,  to  give  him  content,  condescended  thereunto.  This 
done,  and  having  bored  many  holes  in  Kazan's  vessel,  a 
fresh  east  wind  favouring  them,  which  seemed  to  court  the 
sails  and  woo  them  that  they  might  be  admitted  to  come  into 
them,  did  set  them  going  amain,  so  that  in  a  very  few  hours 
they  lost  the  sight  of  the  Cadi's  brigantine;  who  with  tears 
in  his  eyes  stood  looking  how  the  winds  carried  away  his 
wealth,  his  wife,  and  with  Leonisa  his  soul's  delight. 

With  different  thoughts  from  the  Cadi's  sailed  Ricardo 
and  Mahamut ;  and  so,  not  being  willing  to  touch  anywhere, 
as  they  went  along  on  land,  they  passed  by  the  town  of  Alex- 
andria, launching  through  the  deep  Gulf,  and  without  strik- 
ing sail,  or  being  driven  to  make  use  of  their  oars,  the'y  came 
to  the  strong  island  of  Corfu,  where  they  took  in  fresh 
water;  and  presently,  without  any  further  stay,  they  passed 
by  those  noted  high  cliff's  the  Acroserauros.  And  the  second 
day  they  discovered  afar  off  Paquino,  the  promontory  of  the 

^  Chequines — sequins. — [Ed.] 


184  THE 'BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

most  fertile  Trinacria,  out  of  whose  sight  and  that  famous 
island  of  Malta  they  went  flying,  for  with  no  less  swiftness 
did  this  happy  bottom  bear  them. 

In  fine,  compassing  that  island,  some  four  days  after  they 
descried  Lampadosia,  and  anon  after  the  island  where  they 
had  like  to  have  been  wrecked,  and  the  galley  wherein  Leo- 
nisa  was,  split  against  the  rocks,  the  very  sight  whereof  made 
her  to  tremble,  calling  to  mind  the  danger  wherein  she  had 
so  lately  seen  herself.  The  day  following  they  might  ken 
before  them  their  desired  and  beloved  country,  which  quick- 
ened that  joy  which  was  already  in  their  hearts;  their  spirits 
were  transported  with  this  new  contentment,  which  is  one 
of  the  greatest  which  can  be  had  in  this  life,  to  arrive  after 
a  long  captivity  safe  in  their  own  native  country;  and  the 
next  that  may  be  equalled  with  it  is  that  which  men  receive 
in  getting  the  victory  over  their  enemies. 

They  found  in  the  galley  a  great  chest  full  of  flags  and 
streamers  of  silk  of  sundry  colours,  with  which  Ricardo 
caused  the  galley  to  be  adorned  in  most  gallant  manner.  The 
day  was  but  newly  broken  whenas  they  found  themselves  to 
be  within  less  than  a  league  of  the  city,  and  rowing  lustily, 
and  sending  forth  ever  and  anon  shoutings  of  joy  and  glad- 
ness, they  slacked  their  oars  the  nearer  they  came  to  the 
haven,  making  in  very  leisurely.  In  her  entering  into  the 
port  an  infinite  number  of  people  in  an  instant  appeared ;  who 
having  seen  how  slowly  that  well-trimmed  vessel  made  to 
land,  there  was  not  any  one  in  all  the  whole  city  which  did 
not  come  forth  hastening  to  the  seaside. 

While  they  were  thus  flocking  to  the  shore,  Ricardo  en- 
treated Leonisa  that  she  would  clothe  and  adorn  herself  in 
the  same  manner  as  when  she  entered  into  the  tent  of  the 
Rashaws,  because  he  would  put  a  pretty  jest  upon  her  parents. 
She  did  so ;  and  adding  gallantry  to  gallantry,  pearls  to 
pearls,  and  beauty  to  beauty  (which  the  heart's  contentment 
commonly  increaseth),  she  attired  and  dressed  herself  in  such 
sort  as  caused  a  new  admiration  and  wonder.  Ricardo  also 
put  himself  into  the  Turkish  habit,  the  like  did  Mahamut  and 
all  those  Christians  that  plied  the  oar,  for  there  were  raiments 
enough  of  the  slain  Turks  to  serve  all  of  them.  When  they 
arrived  at  the  port  it  was  about  eight  of  the  clock  in  the 
morning,  which  showed  itself  so  fair  and  so  clear  that  it 


THE  LIBERAL  LOVER  185 

seemed  to  appear  so  of  purpose  for  to  behold  that  joyful 
entrance. 

Before  their  entering  the  port  Ricardo  made  them  to  dis- 
charge their  pieces  of  ordnance  belonging  to  the  galley,  to 
wit,  one  cannon  and  two  falcons.  The  city  answered  them 
with  the  like.  The  people  stood  as  thick  as  they  could  stand 
together,  expecting  the  coming  in  of  this  goodly  vessel,  so 
bravely  waving  her  flying  flags  and  streamers,  moving  to  and 
fro  with  a  gentle  gale  of  wind.  But  when  they  were  come 
so  near  them  as  to  discern  that  they  were  Turkish,  by  reason 
of  those  white  turbans  that  they  wore  on  their  heads,  they 
began  to  wax  fearful  and  jealous  of  some  fraud  and  deceit; 
whereupon  they  betook  them  to  their  arms,  and  as  many  as 
were  trained  soldiers  in  the  city  hastened  to  the  port,  whilst 
the  horsemen  went  some  one  way,  some  another,  scouring  the 
coast.  Of  all  which  stir  they  took  great  pleasure,  who  by 
little  and  little  drew  nearer  and  nearer  till  they  entered  the 
haven,  and  casting  anchor  near  the  shore,  throwing  out  a 
plank,  and  pulling  in  their  oars  one  by  one,  as  it  were  in  pro- 
cession came  on  land,  which  with  tears  of  joy  they  kissed 
again  and  again — an  evident  sign  that  they  were  Christians 
who  had  made  prize  of  that  vessel.  The  last  that  landed 
were  the  father  and  mother  of  Halima  and  her  kinsmen,  all, 
as  we  told  you,  clad  after  the  Turkish  fashion.  That  which 
made  up  the  total  sum  or  final  end  of  all  was  fair  Leonisa, 
having  a  veil  cast  over  her  face  of  crimson  taffeta,  led  by 
Ricardo  and  Mahamut ;  which  spectacle  drew  after  them  the 
eyes  of  all  that  infinite  multitude,  who  at  their  landing  pros- 
trated themselves  as  the  rest  did,  saluting  the  earth  with  their 
kisses. 

By  that  time  this  was  done,  the  Captain  and  Governor  of 
the  city  was  come  up  unto  them,  who  knew  very  well  that 
they  of  all  the  rest  were  the  chief  and  principal  persons ;  but 
he  had  scarce  come  fully  near  them  but  presently  he  knew 
Ricardo,  and  ran  with  open  arms  and  signs  of  exceeding 
great  joy  to  embrace  him. 

There  came  along  with  the  Governor  Cornelio  and  his 
parents,  and  those  of  Leonisa,  with  all  her  kinsfolk,  together 
with  those  of  Ricardo,  all  which  were  the  greatest  persons  of 
rank  and  quality  in  the  whole  city.  Ricardo  embraced  the 
Governor,  and  repaid  them  all  with  thanks  thfX  gave  him  the 
13 


i86  TIffi  BOOK   OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

parabien  *  of  his  return.  He  took  Cornelio  by  the  hand,  who 
as  soon  as  he  knew  him  and  found  that  he  held  him  fast,  his 
colour  began  to  change,  and  began  to  shake  and  tremble  for 
fear,  and  taking  Leonisa  likewise  by  the  hand,  he  said :  "  Gen- 
tlemen, of  courtesy,  sirs,  I  beseech  you,  that  before  we  enter 
the  city,  and  into  the  temple  to  give  due  thanks  unto  our  Lord 
God  for  the  great  favours  which  He  hath  done  for  us  in  our 
misfortunes,  you  will  be  pleased  to  hear  me  speak  a  few 
words  which  I  am  desirous  to  deliver  unto  you." 

Whereunto  the  Governor  answered  that  he  might  utter 
what  he  would,  for  they  should  all  with  much  content  and 
silence  give  him  both  a  willing  and  attentive  ear.  Presently 
hereupon  all  the  chiefest  among  them  placed  themselves 
round  about  him ;  and  he,  raising  his  voice  to  such  a  height 
as  he  might  (not  overstraining  it)  be  well  heard,  spake  unto 
them  after  this  manner: 

"  Gentlemen,  ye  may  well  remember  the  misfortune  which 
some  months  since  befell  me  in  the  garden  near  the  salt-pits, 
together  with  the  loss  of  Leonisa;  it  cannot  likewise  have 
fallen  out  of  your  memory  the  diligence  which  I  used  in 
procuring  her  liberty,  since  that,  being  forgetful  of  mine  own, 
I  offered  for  her  ransom  all  my  whole  estate ;  and  though  this 
perhaps,  to  your  seeming,  was  then  accounted  great  liberality, 
yet  can  it  not,  neither  ought  it,  to  redound  to  my  praise, 
since  that  I  was  to  give  it  for  the  ransom  of  my  soul.  That 
which  from  that  time  since  hath  happened  to  both  of  us  will 
require  long  time,  a  more  seasonable  conjuncture,  and  another 
tongue  less  troubled  than  mine.  Let  it  suffice  for  the  present 
that  I  tell  you,  that  after  many  various  and  strange  accidents, 
and  after  a  thousand  lost  hopes  of  remedying  our  misfortunes, 
Heaven  taking  pity  of  us,  without  any  merit  of  ours,  hath  re- 
turned us  home  to  our  native  country,  as  full  of  content  as 
abounding  in  wealth;  yet  neither  from  this  nor  my  procured 
liberty  is  the  end  answerable  to  my  desire,  nor  do  I  take  any 
great  contentment  in  the  enjoying  of  these,  but  in  that  which 
I  conceive  this  both  in  peace  and  war  my  sweet  enemy  taketh, 
as  well  for  to  see  herself  free  as  to  see  here  before  her,  as  she 
doth,  the  image  of  her  own  soul.  Yet  notwithstanding  I 
greatly  rejoice  in  this  general  rejoicing  which  they  receive 

'  Parabien — felicitation. — [Ed.] 


THE  LIBERAL  LOVER  187 

who  have  been  my  companions  in  misery;  and  though  hard 
misfortunes  and  sad  mischances  are  wont  to  alter  our  dispo- 
sitions and  to  depress  valiant  minds,  yet  was  it  not  so  with 
the  overthrower  of  my  good  hopes ;  for  I  may  be  bold  to  say 
it,  that  she  amid  these  her  miseries  hath  with  the  more  un- 
daunted courage  and  constant  resolution  endured  the  ship- 
wreck of  her  disadventures  and  the  encounters  of  my  earnest 
but  honest  importunings ;  wherein  that  old  adage  is  verified : 
*  They  may  change  their  countries  but  not  their  customs 
who  hav^  once  gotten  a  habit  of  them.'  Of  all  this  which  I 
have  said  I  thence  infer  that  I  offered  my  whole  estate  for 
her  ransom,  gave  her  my  soul  in  my  good  desires,  plotted  the 
means  of  her  liberty,  and  adventured  more  for  her  than 
myself,  my  life;  and  though  from  all  these,  in  the  construc- 
tion of  noble  and  ingenious  dispositions,  may  be  raised  en- 
gagements of  some  moment,  yet  will  I  not  press  any  one  upon 
her,  save  only  this  one  which  I  presume  she  will  make  good  " ; 
and  in  saying  this,  he  put  up  his  hand,  and  in  a  very  civil 
and  mannerly  way  took  away  the  scarf  from  before  Leonisa's 
face,  which  resembled  as  it  were  the  removing  of  a  cloud 
which  darkens  the  beautiful  brightness  of  the  sun.  Then 
did  he  prosecute  his  speech,  saying :  "  Lo,  here,  Cornelio,  I 
deliver  unto  thee  such  a  jewel,  which  thou  oughtest  to  esteem 
above  all  those  things  that  are  esteemed  worthy.  And  so 
here,  thou  fair  Leonisa,  I  give  thee  that  which  thou  hast  ever 
had  in  thy  memory.  This  if  you  please  you  may  term  lib- 
erality; in  comparison  whereof,  to  give  away  my  estate,  my 
life,  my  honour,  is  all  as  nothing.  Take  her,  O  thou  fortu- 
nate young  man!  take  her,  I  say;  and  if  thy  knowledge  can 
but  come  to  reach  so  high  as  to  come  to  know  her  worth, 
I  shall  hold  thee  to  be  the  hai5piest  man  this  day  on  earth. 
Together  with  her  I  will  give  thee  likewise  as  much  as  comes 
to  my  share  of  all  that  which  Heaven  hath  allotted  to  us  all, 
which  I  make  account  will  come  to  above  thirty  thousand 
crowns.  All  this  mayst  thou  freely  enjoy  with  much  pleasure, 
quietude,  and  content;  and  Heaven  grant  that  it  may  con- 
tinue many  long  and  happy  years.  As  for  myself,  being  made 
unfortunate  by  some  squint-eyed  star  at  my  birth,  since  that 
I  must  be  without  Leonisa,  I  am  content  to  be  poor;  for  he 
lives  too  long  who  lives  without  Leonisa." 

This  said,  he  was  silent,  as  if  he  had  knit  a  knot  upon 


/88  THE  BOOK  OF  THE   SHORT  STORV 

his  tongue.  But  within  a  very  little  while,  before  that  any 
other  spake,  recollecting  himself,  he  said :  "  O  Heavens  !  how 
do  pinching  troubles  disturb  the  understanding !  I,  gentle- 
men, out  of  the  desire  which  I  have  to  do  good,  have  not 
weighed  well  what  I  said;  for  it  is  not  possible  that  a  man 
should  show  himself  liberal  of  that  which  is  another's,  not 
his  own.  What  jurisdiction  or  power  have  I  in  Leonisa  for 
to  give  her  unto  another?  or  how  can  I  make  offer  of  that 
which  is  so  far  from  being  mine?  Leonisa  is  his,  and  so 
much  his  that,  were  her  parents  dead  (but  long  may  they 
live)  her  affection  would  find  no  opposition.  And  if  there 
may  stand  perhaps  in  her  way  those  obligations  which,  being 
as  she  is,  discreet,  she  ought  to  think  she  owes  me,  from 
this  day  forward  I  disclaim  them,  cancel  them,  and  acknowl- 
edge  them  to  be  wholly  void  and  of  none  effect,  and  therefore 
unsay  what  I  said  before.  I  give  then  to  Cornelio  nothing, 
because  I  cannot ;  only  I  confirm  the  grant  of  my  goods  made 
to  Leonisa,  without  desiring  or  looking  for  any  other  recom- 
pense save  that  she  esteem  for  true  my  honest  thoughts,  and 
that  she  will  have  this  belief  of  them,  that  they  were  never 
directed  nor  looked  towards  any  other  point  save  that  which 
stood  with  her  incomparable  honesty,  her  great  worth,  and 
infinite  beauty."    And  here  Ricardo  ended  his  speech. 

Whereunto  Leonisa  answered  in  this  manner:  "If  any 
favours,  O  Ricardo,  you  imagine  I  did  Cornelio,  whenas  you 
were  enamoured  and  jealous  of  me,  imagine  likewise  that  it 
was  both  meet  and  honest,  as  being  guided  by  the  will  and 
order  of  my  parents,  who,  intending  to  make  a  match  between 
US;  laid  their  command  upon  me  to  do  him  those  favours.  If 
you  rest  satisfied  with  this,  well  may  you  satisfy  yourself  with 
that  which  experience  hath  made  known  unto  you  of  my 
honesty  and  reservedness.  I  speak  this  for  to  give  you,  Ri- 
cardo, to  understand  that  my  will  was  always  subject  to  an- 
other's will,  to  wit,  my  parents',  whom  I  now  most  humbly, 
as  is  meet,  beseech  and  earnestly  entreat  that  they  will  give 
me  leave  and  liberty  freely  to  dispose  of  that  which  your 
valour  and  liberality  hath  bestowed  on  me." 

Her  parents  with  a  very  good  will  gave  her  their  leave 
so  to  do,  relying  on  her  discretion  that  she  would  make  use 
thereof  in  such  sort  as  should  redound  always  to  her  own 
honour  and  their  profit. 


THE  LIBERAL  LOVER  I  §9 

Having  obtained  this  license,  discreet  Leonisa  proceeded 
thus :  "  I  shall  entreat  you,  as  many  as  be  here  present,  that 
you  will  bear  me  witness  that  I  had  rather  incur  the  censure 
of  lightness  and  inconstancy,  which  none  of  you  all  can  or 
shall  ever  be  able  to  charge  me  therewith,  than  to  be  taxed 
(which  is  hateful  both  in  the  sight  of  God  and  man)  of  un- 
thankfulness  and  ingratitude.  And  therefore,  O  valiant  Ri- 
cardo,  my  good-will  and  affection,  hitherto  so  reserved,  so 
perplexed  and  doubtful,  shall  now  declare  itself  in  your  fa- 
vour, to  the  end  that  you  men  may  know  that  all  women  are 
not  ingrateful,  by  my  expressing  of  my  thankfulness  to  you. 
I  am  thine,  Ricardo,  and  will  be  thine  till  death,  if  some  better 
knowledge  move  thee  not  to  deny  me  thy  hand ;  for  I  desire 
nothing  more  than  to  have  thee  to  be  my  husband." 

Ricardo  hearing  these  words  was  so  transported  with  joy 
and  in  a  manner  so  beside  himself,  that  he  neither  knew  how, 
nor  could  not  answer  Leonisa  in  any  other  language  than 
humbling  himself  on  his  knees  before  her  and  kissing  her 
hands,  which  he  held  fast  by  force,  bathing  them  often  with 
his  tender  and  loving  tears.  Cornelio  did  shed  tears  too, 
but  of  grief  and  sorrow;  so  did  Leonisa's  parents,  but  of  joy 
and  gladness;  and  of  admiration  and  contentment  all  the 
standers-by. 

The  Bishop  of  that  city  was  then  there  present,  and  with 
his  benediction  and  license  brought  them  to  the  cathedral 
church,  and,  dispensing  with  the  time,  instantly  married  them. 
The  joyful  news  of  this  wedding  was  quickly  spread  over  all 
Trapana;  and  that  very  night,  in  token  of  rejoicing,  infinite 
lights  were  set  up  and  great  bonfires  made,  accompanied  with 
ringing  of  bells  and  divers  loud  musical  instruments ;  and  for 
many  days  after  there  were  masquings,  comedies,  sporting 
with  canes,^  running  of  bulls,  and  solemn  invitations  and 
feastings  made  by  the  parents  of  Ricardo  and  Leonisa.  Ma- 
hamut  and  Halima  were  reconciled  to  the  Church,  who  im- 
possibilited  of  fulfilling  her  desire  in  being  Ricardo's  wife, 
contented  herself  in  matching  with  Mahamut.  To  Halima's 
parents  and  kinsmen  Ricardo  gave  liberally  of  those  spoils 
which  he  had  taken,  wherewith  they  might  be  enabled  to  live 
not  only  sufficiently  but  plentifully.     In  conclusion,  all  of  them 

*  Sporting  with  canes — mock  tournaments. — [Ed.] 


i9<i  THE  BOO^  Of  lUE  SHORT  STORY 

remained  fully  contented  and  satisfied;  and  the  fame  of  Ri- 
cardo  going  beyond  the  bounds  of  Sicily,  spread  itself  through 
all  the  parts  of  Italy  and  many  other  places  under  the  name 
of  The  Liberal  Lover;  and  even  to  this  very  day  continueth 
fresh  in  those  many  children  which  he  had  by  Leonisa,  who 
was  a  rare  example  of  discretion,  honesty,  reservedness, 
thankfulness,  and  beauty. 


A    LIST    OF    REPRESENTATIVE    TALES    AND 
>  SHORT    STORIES 

VII 

1700   TO    1750: 

Contes  de  Fees,  Charles  Perrault  (i 700-11). 

*  Fables,  John  Dryden   (1700). 

The  Apparition  of  Mrs.  Veal,  Daniel  Defoe  (1706). 

Tales   (in  The  Tatler),  Addison  and  Steele   (i 709-11).  " 

Tales    (in  The   Spectator),   Addison  and   Steele    (1711-12- 

1714). 
The  Destruction  of  the  Isle  of  St.  Vincent,   Daniel  Defoe 

(1718). 
The  Dumb  Philosopher,  Daniel  Defoe  (1719). 
The  King  of  Pirates,  Daniel  Defoe  (1719). 
Stories  in  A  System  of  Magic,  Daniel  Defoe  (1726). 
Ghost  Stories,  Daniel  Defoe,  An  Essay  on  the  History  and 

Reality  of  Apparitions  (1727). 
Histoire  de   Fleur   d'Epine;    Anthony,    Count   of   Hamilton 

(1730)- 
Le  Sopha,  C.  P.  J.  de  Crebillon  (1745). 
Zadig,  Voltaire  (1747?). 

Les  Bijoux  Indiscrets,  Denis  Diderot  (1748). 
Le  Monde  Comme  il  Va,  Voltaire  (1748). 

191 


THE  APPARITION    OF  MRS.  VEAL 


THE  APPARITION  OF  MRS.  VEAL 

The  short  stories  written  in  the  eighteenth  century 
may  roughly  be  divided  into  three  classes:  those  of  the 
general 'realistic  type,  such  as  those  of  Defoe,  which  at- 
tempt to  make  fiction  appear  to  be  fact,  of  which  the 
present  story  is  an  example;  those  with  a  purpose,  as  a 
sort  of  tract,  of  which  Voltaire's  tales  are  perhaps  the 
supreme  instance ;  and  finally,  wonder-tales  or  fairy- 
stories,  in  which  class  the  tales  of  the  Frenchman,  Charles 
Perrault,  are  the  great  example  in  the  latter  part  of  the 
seventeenth  and  in  the  early  part  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury. As  Ferdinand  Brunetiere  says,  "  from  1680  to 
1 71 5  no  kind  of  literature  was  produced  in  more  abun- 
dance than  fairy-stories." 

The  Apparition  of  Mrs.  Veal,  almost  the  earliest  of 
Daniel  Defoe's  (i66i?-i73i)  realistic  fictions,  was  first 
published  in  a  pamphlet  in  July,  1706.  It  was  not,  as  has 
often  been  asserted,  written  to  aid  the  sale  of  a  book, 
though  it  was  afterwards  used  for  that  purpose ;  as  it  ap- 
pears, with  rather  ill  success.  "  No  one  can  read  this 
marvellous  creation  of  our  author's,"  says  William  Lee  in 
his  Life  of  Defoe,  "  and  study  the  whole  of  its  details, 
without  concurring  in  the  eulogistic  criticism  of  Sir  Wal- 
ter Scott,  and  other  writers  who  have  considered  it.  The 
Apparition  of  Mrs.  Veal  could  never  have  happened  in 
reality ;  and  yet,  it  is  perhaps  the  most  perfect  thing  of  its 
kind  that  ever  was  written."  The  skill  of  Defoe  in  dis- 
arming criticism  by  giving  all  the  arguments  both  for  and 
against  the  veracity  of  the  characters  has  been  aptly  com- 
mented on  by  Leslie  Stephen.  Thomas  Wright,  in  his 
Life  of  Defoe,  suggests  whether  "  a  lady  of  Defoe's  ac- 
quaintance, to  whom  he  gives  the  name  of  Mrs.  Bar- 

195 


196  THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

grave,  did  not  tell  him,  and  in  good  faith,  this  story." 
Admitting  that,  the  responsibility  for  the  origin  of  the 
fiction  is  only, laid  elsewhere.  For  a  thorough  threshing 
of  this  and  other  disputed  questions,  the  reader  is  re- 
ferred to  the  introductions  of  the  edition  of  Defoe's 
writings  edited  by  George  A.  Aitken. 

The  present  text  is  a  faithful  copy  of  the  first  edi- 
tion, though  the  punctuation  has  been  somewhat  modern- 
ised; many  of  the  modem  reprints  are  very  inaccurate. 

AUTHORITIES : 

Hours  in  A  Library  (first  series),  by  Leslie  Ste- 
phen. 

Daniel  Defoe:  His  Life  and  Recently  Discovered 
Writings,  by  William  Lee. 

Daniel  Defoe,  by  William  Minto  (English  Men  of 
Letters  series). 

The  Short  Story  in  English,  by  Henry  Seidel  Canby 
(Chapter  IX). 


A   TRUE   RELATION 

OF  THE 

APPARITION  OF  ONE  MRS.  VEAL 
THE  NEXT  DAY  AFTER    HER   DEATH 

TO  ONE 

MRS.  BARGRAVE 

AT 

CANTERBURY,   THE  8TH   OF  SEPTEMBER   1705 


THE  PREFACE 

This  relation  is  matter  of  fact,  and  attended  with  such 
circumstances  as  may  induce  any  reasonable  man  to  believe 
it.  It  w-as  sent  by  a  gentleman,  a  justice  of  peace  at  Maid- 
stone, in  Kent,  and  a  very  intelligent  person,  to  his  friend 
in  London,  as  it  is  here  worded;  which  discourse  is  attested 
by  a  very  sober  and  understanding  gentlewoman  and  kins- 
woman of  the  said  gentleman's,  who  lives  in  Canterbury, 
within  a  few  doors  of  the  house  in  which  the  within-named 
Mrs.  Bargrave  lives ;  who  believes  his  kinswoman  to  be  of  so 
discerning  a  spirit  as  not  to  be  put  upon  by  any  fallacy,  and 
who  positively  assured  him  that  the  whole  matter  as  it  is  here 
related  and  laid  down  is  what  is  really  true,  and  what  she 
herself  had  in  the  same  words,  as  near  as  may  be,  from  Mrs. 
Bargrave's  own  mouth,  who,  she  knows,  had  no  reason  to  in- 
vent and  publish  such  a  story,  nor  any  design  to  forge  and 
tell  a  lie,  being  a  woman  of  much  honesty  and  virtue,  and  her 
whole  life  a  course,  as  it  were,  of  piety.  The  use  which  we 
ought  to  make  of  it  is  to  consider  that  there  is  a  life  to  come 
after  this  and  a  just  God  who  will  retribute  to  every  one  ac- 
cording to  the  deeds  done  in  the  body,  and  therefore  to  reflect 
upon  our  past  course  of  life  we  have  led  in  the  world;  that 
our  time  is  short  and  uncertain ;  and  that  if  we  would  escape 
the  punishment  of  the  ungodly  and  receive  the  reward  of  the 
righteous,  which  is  the  laying  hold  of  eternal  life,  we  ought, 
for  the  time  to  come,  to  return  to  God  by  a  speedy  repentance, 
ceasing  to  do  evil  and  learning  to  do  well,  to  seek  after  God 
early,  if  haply  He  may  be  found  of  us,  and  lead  such  lives  for 
the  future  as  may  be  well  pleasing  in  His  sight. 


199 


A  RELATION  OF 
THE  APPARITION   OF  MRS.   VEAL 

This  thing  is  so  rare  in  all  its  circumstances,  and  on  so 
good  authority,  that  my  reading  and  conversation  has  not 
given  me  anything  like  it.  It  is  fit  to  gratify  the  most  in- 
genious and  serious  inquirer.  Mrs.  Bargrave  is  the  person 
to  whom  Mrs.  Veal  appeared  after  her  death;  she  is  my  in- 
timate friend,  and  I  can  avouch  for  her  reputation  for  these 
last  fifteen  or  sixteen  years,  on  my  own  knowledge;  and  I 
can  confirm  the  good  character  she  had  from  her  youth  to  the 
time  of  my  acquaintance;  though  since  this  relation  she  is 
calumniated  by  some  people  that  are  friends  to  the  brother 
of  Mrs.  Veal  who  appeared,  who  think  the  relation  of  this 
appearance  to  be  a  reflection,  and  endeavour  what  they  can 
to  blast  Mrs.  Bargrave's  reputation  and  to  laugh  the  sto/y 
out  of  countenance.  But  by  the  circumstances  thereof,  and 
the  cheerful  disposition  of  Mrs.  Bargrave,  notwithstanding 
the  unheard-of  ill-usage  of  a  very  wicked  husband,  there  is 
not  the  least  sign  of  dejection  in  her  face;  nor  did  I  ever 
hear  her  let  fall  a  desponding  or  murmuring  expression ;  nay, 
not  when  actually  under  her  husband's  barbarity,  which  I 
have  been  witness  to,  and  several  other  persons  of  undoubted 
reputation. 

Now  you  must  know  Mrs.  Veal  was  a  maiden  gentle- 
woman of  about  thirty  years  of  age,  and  for  some  years  last 
past  had  been  troubled  with  fits,  which  were  perceived  com- 
ing on  her  by  her  going  off  from  her  discourse  very  abruptly 
to  some  impertinence.  She  was  maintained  by  an  only 
brother,  and  kept  his  house  in  Dover.  She  was  a  very  pious 
woman,  and  her  brother  a  very  sober  man,  to  all  appearance ; 
but  now  he  does  all  he  can  to  null  or  quash  the  story.  Mrs. 
Veal  was  intimately  acquainted  with  Mrs.  Bargrave  from 
her  childhood.    Mrs.  Veal's  circumstances  were  then  mean; 

14  201 


202      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

her  father  did  not  take  care  of  his  children  as  he  ought,  so 
that  they  were  exposed  to  hardships;  and  Mrs.  Bargrave  in 
those  days  had  as  unkind  a  father,  though  she  wanted  neither 
for  food  nor  clothing,  while  Mrs.  Veal  wanted  for  both;  so 
that  it  was  in  the  power  of  Mrs.  Bargrave  to  be  very  much 
her  friend  in  several  instances,  which  mightily  endeared  Mrs. 
Veal ;  insomuch  that  she  would  often  say :  "  Mrs.  Bargrave, 
you  are  not  only  the  best,  but  the  only  friend  I  have  in  the 
world;  and  no  circumstance  in  life  shall  ever  dissolve  mj 
friendship."  They  would  often  condole  each  other's  adverse 
fortune,  and  read  together  Drelincourt  upon  Death,  and  other 
good  books ;  and  so,  like  two  Christian  friends,  they  comforted 
each  other  under  their  sorrow. 

Some  time  after,  Mr.  Veal's  friends  got  him  a  place  in 
the  Custom  House  at  Dover,  which  occasioned  Mrs.  Veal, 
by  little  and  little,  to  fall  off  from  her  intimacy  with  Mrs. 
Bargrave,  though  there  was  never  any  such  thing  as  a  quar- 
rel ;  but  an  indifferency  came  on  by  degrees,  till  at  last  Mrs. 
Bargrave  had  not  seen  her  in  two  years  and  a  half;  though 
above  a  twelvemonth  of  the  time  Mrs.  Bargrave  had  been 
absent  from  Dover,  and  this  last  half-year  had  been  in  Can- 
terbury about  two  months  of  the  time,  dwelling  in  a  house 
of  her  own. 

In  this  house,  on  the  8th  of  September  last,  viz.,  1705, 
she  was  sitting  alone,  in  the  forenoon,  thinking  over  her  un- 
fortunate life,  and  arguing  herself  into  a  due  resignation  to 
Providence,  though  her  condition  seemed  hard.  "  And," 
said  she,  "  I  have  been  provided  for  hitherto,  and  doubt  not 
but  I  shall  be  still;  and  am  well  satisfied  that  my  afflictions 
shall  end  when  it  is  most  fit  for  me  " ;  and  then  took  up  her 
sewing-work,  which  she  had  no  sooner  done  but  she  hears  a 
knocking  at  the  door.  She  went  to  see  who  it  was  there,  and 
this  proved  to  be  Mrs.  Veal,  her  old  friend,  who  was  in  a 
riding-habit:  at  that  moment  of  time  the  clock  struck  twelve 
at  noon. 

"  Madam,"  says  Mrs.  Bargrave,  "  I  am  surprised  to  see 
you,  you  have  been  so  long  a  stranger  " ;  but  told  her  she  was 
glad  to  see  her,  and  offered  to  salute  her,  which  Mrs.  Veal 
complied  with,  till  their  lips  almost  touched;  and  then  Mrs. 
Veal  drew  her  hand  across  her  own  eyes  and  said :  "  I  am 
not  very  well ",  and  so  waived  it.     She  told  Mrs.  Bargrave 


THE  APPARITION  OF   MRS.   VEAL  203 

she  was  going  a  journey,  and  had  a  great  mind  to  see  her 
first.  "  But,"  says  Mrs.  Bargrave,  "  how  came  you  to  take  a 
journey  alone?  I  am  amazed  at  it,  because  I  know  you  have 
so  fond  a  brother."  "  Oh,"  says  Mrs.  Veal,  "  I  gave  my  broth- 
er the  slip,  and  came  away,  because  I  had  so  great  a  desire  to 
see  you  before  I  took  my  journey."  So  Mrs.  Bargrave  went 
in  with  her  into  another  room  within  the  first,  and  Mrs.  Veal 
set  her  down  in  an  elbow-chair,  in  which  Mrs.  Bargrave  was 
sitting  when  she  heard  Mrs.  Veal  knock.  Then  says  Mrs. 
Veal :  "  My  dear  friend,  I  am  come  to  renew  our  old  friend- 
ship again,  and  beg  your  pardon  for  my  breach  of  it ;  and  if 
you  can  forgive  me,  you  are  one  of  the  best  of  women."  "Oh," 
says  Mrs.  Bargrave,  "  don't  mention  such  a  thing ;  I  have 
not  had  an  uneasy  thought  about  it ;  I  can  easily  forgive  it." 
"What  did  you  think  of  me?"  said  Mrs.  Veal.  Says  Mrs. 
Bargrave :  "  I  thought  you  were  like  the  rest  of  the  world,  and 
that  prosperity  had  made  you  forget  yourself  and  me."  Then 
Mrs.  Veal  reminded  Mrs.  Bargrave  of  the  many  friendly 
offices  she  did  her  in  former  days,  and  much  of  the  conver- 
sation they  had  with  each  other  in  the  time  of  their  adver- 
sity; what  books  they  read,  and  what  comfort  in  particular 
they  received  from  Drelincourt's  Book  of  Death,  which  was 
the  best,  she  said,  on  that  subject  ever  wrote.  She  also 
mentioned  Dr.  Sherlock,  and  two  Dutch  books  which  were 
translated,  wrote  upon  death,  and  several  others ;  but  Drelin- 
court,  she  said,  had  the  clearest  notions  of  death  and  of  the 
future  state  of  any  who  had  handled  that  subject.  Then  she 
asked  Mrs.  Bargrave  whether  she  had  Drelincourt.  She 
said :  "  Yes."  Says  Mrs.  Veal :  "  Fetch  it."  And  so  Mrs.  Bar- 
grave  goes  upstairs  and  brings  it  down.  Says  Mrs.  Veal : 
"  Dear  Mrs.  Bargrave,  if  the  eyes  of  our  faith  were  as  open 
as  the  eyes  of  our  body,  we  should  see  numbers  of  angels 
about  us  for  our  guard.  The  notions  we  have  of  heaven  now 
are  nothing  like  what  it  is,  as  Drelincourt  says.  Therefore  be 
comforted  under  your  afflictions,  and  believe  that  the  Al- 
mighty has  a  particular  regard  to  you,  and  that  your  afflic- 
tions are  marks  of  God's  favour;  and  when  they  have  done 
the  business  they  are  sent  for,  they  shall  be  removed  from 
you.  And  believe  me,  my  dear  friend,  believe  what  I  say  to 
you,  one  minute  of  future  happiness  will  infinitely  reward 
you  for  all  your  sufferings;  for  I  can  never  believe   [and 


204      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

claps  her  hand  upon  her  knee  with  great  earnestness,  which 
indeed  ran  through  most  of  her  discourse]  that  ever  God 
will  suffer  you  to  spend  all  your  days  in  this  afflicted  state; 
but  be  assured  that  your  afflictions  shall  leave  you,  or  you 
them  in  a  short  time."  She  spake  in  that  pathetical  and 
heavenly  manner,  that  Mrs.  Bargrave  wept  several  times,  she 
was  so  deeply  affected  with  it. 

Then  Mrs.  Veal  mentioned  Dr.  Horneck's  Ascetick,  at 
the  end  of  which  he  gives  an  account  of  the  lives  of  the 
primitive  Christians.  Their  pattern  she  recommended  to  our 
imitation,  and  said  their  conversation  was  not  like  this  of  our 
age;  "  for  now,"  says  she,  "  there  is  nothing  but  frothy,  vain 
discourse,  which  is  far  different  from  theirs.  Theirs  was  to 
edification,  and  to  build  one  another  up  in  faith ;  so  that  they 
were  not  as  we  are,  nor  are  we  as  they  were ;  but,"  said  she, 
"  we  might  do  as  they  did.  There  was  a  hearty  friendship 
among  them ;  but  where  is  it  now  to  be  found  ?  "  Says  Mrs. 
Bargrave :  "  'Tis  hard  indeed  to  find  a  true  friend  in  these 
days."  Says  Mrs.  Veal :  "  Mr.  Norris  has  a  fine  copy  of 
verses,  called  Friendship  in  Perfection,  which  I  wonderfully 
admire.  Have  you  seen  the  book?"  says  Mrs.  Veal.  "  No," 
says  Mrs.  Bargrave,  "  but  I  have  the  verses  of  my  own  wri- 
ting out."  "  Have  you  ? "  says  Mrs.  Veal ;  "  then  fetch 
them."  Which  she  did  from  above-stairs,  and  offered  them 
to  Mrs.  Veal  to  read,  who  refused,  and  waived  the  thing, 
saying,  holding  down  her  head  would  make  it  ache ;  and  then 
desired  Mrs.  Bargrave  to  read  them  to  her,  which  she  did. 
As  they  were  admiring  Friendship  Mrs.  Veal  said:  "Dear 
Mrs.  Bargrave,  I  shall  love  you  forever."  In  the  verses  there 
is  twice  used  the  word  Elysian.  "  Ah  !  "  says  Mrs.  Veal, 
"  these  poets  have  such  names  for  heaven ! "  She  would 
often  draw  her  hand  across  her  own  eyes  and  say :  "  Mrs. 
Bargrave,  don't  you  think  I  am  mightily  impaired  by  my 
fits?  "  "  No,"  says  Mrs.  Bargrave,  "  I  think  you  look  as  well 
as  ever  I  knew  you." 

After  all  this  discourse,  which  the  apparition  put  in 
words  much  finer  than  Mrs.  Bargrave  said  she  could  pretend 
to,  and  was  much  more  than  she  can  remember  (for  it  cannot 
be  thought  that  an  hour  and  three-quarters'  conversation 
could  all  be  retained,  though  the  main  of  it  she  thinks 
she  does),  she  said  to  Mrs.  Bargrave  she  would  have  her 


THE  APPARITION  OF  MRS.  VEAL  205 

write  a  letter  to  her  brother,  and  tell  him  she  would  have 
him  give  rings  to  such  and  such,  and  that  there  was  a  purse 
of  gold  in  her  cabinet,  and  that  she  would  have  two  l3road 
pieces  given  to  her  cousin  Watson. 

Talking  at  this  rate,  Mrs.  Bargrave  thought  that  a  fit 
was  coming  upon  her,  and  so  placed  herself  in  a  chair  just 
before  her  knees,  to  keep  her  from  falling  to  the  ground,  if 
her  fit  should  occasion  it  (for  the  elbow-chair,  she  thought, 
would  keep  her  from  falling  on  either  side)  ;  and  to  divert 
Mrs.  Vasal,  as  she  thought,  she  took  hold  of  her  gown-sleeve 
several  times  and  commended  it.  Mrs,  Veal  told  her  it  was 
a  scoured  silk,  and  newly  made  up.  But  for  all  this,  Mrs. 
Veal  persisted  in  her  request,  and  told  Mrs.  Bargrave  she 
must  not  deny  her ;  and  she  would  have  her  tell  her  brother 
all  their  conversation  when  she  had  an  opportunity.  "  Dear 
Mrs.  Veal,"  said  Mrs.  Bargrave,  "  this  seems  so  impertinent 
that  I  cannot  tell  hdw  to  comply  with  it;  and  what  a  morti- 
fying story  will  our  conversation  be  to  a  young  gentleman  !  " 
"  Well,"  says  Mrs.  Veal,  "  I  must  not  be  denied."  "  Why," 
says  Mrs.  Bargrave,  "  'tis  much  better,  methjnks,  to  do  it 
yourself."  "  No,"  says  Mrs.  Veal,  "  though  it  seems  imper- 
tinent to  you  now,  you  will  see  more  reason  for  it  hereafter." 
Mrs.  Bargrave  then,  to  satisfy  her  importunity,  was  going  to 
fetch  a  pen  arid  ink ;  but  Mrs.  Veal  said :  "  Let  it  alone  now, 
and  do  it  when  I  am  gone ;  but  you  must  be  sure  to  do  it " ; 
which  was  one  of  the  last  things  she  enjoined  her  at  parting; 
and  so  she  promised  her. 

Then  Mrs.  Veal  asked  for  Mrs.  Bargrave's  daughter. 
She  said  she  was  not  at  home:  "but  if  you  have  a  mind  to 
see  her,"  says  Mrs.  Bargrave,  "  I'll  send  for  her."  "  Do," 
says  Mrs.  Veal.  On  which  she  left  her,  and  went  to  a  neigh- 
bour's to  send  for  her;  and  by  the  time  Mrs.  Bargrave  was 
returning,  Mrs.  Veal  was  got  without  the  door  in  the  street, 
in  the  face  of  the  beast-market,  on  a  Saturday  (which  is 
market-day),  and  stood  ready  to  part  as  soon  as  Mrs.  Bar- 
grave  came  to  her.  She  asked  her  why  she  was  in  such  haste. 
She  said  she  must  be  going,  though  perhaps  she  might  not  go 
her  journey  until  Monday;  and  told  Mrs.  Bargrave  she  hoped 
she  should  see  her  again  at  her  cousin  Watson's  before  she 
went  whither  she  was  a-going.  Then  she  said  she  would 
take  her  leave  of  her,  and  walked  from  Mrs.  Bargrave  in  her 


2o6      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

view,  till  a  turning  interrupted  the  sight  of  her,  which  was 
three-quarters  after  one  in  the  afternoon. 

Mrs.  Veal  died  the  7th  of  September,  at  twelve  o'clock  at 
neon,  of  her  fits,  and  had  not  above  four  hours'  senses  before 
death,  in  which  time  she  received  the  sacrament.  The  next 
day  after  Mrs.  Veal's  appearance,' being  Sunday,  Mrs.  Bar- 
grave  was  mightily  indisposed  with  a  cold  and  a  sore  throat, 
that  she  could  not  go  out  that  day ;  but  on  Monday  morning 
she  sends  a  person  to  Captain  Watson's  to  know  if  Mrs. 
Veai  were  there.  They  wondered  at  Mrs.  Bargrave's  in- 
quiry, and  sent  her  word  that  she  was  not  there,  nor  was 
expected.  At  this  answer,  Mrs.  Bargrave  told  the  maid  she 
had  certainly  mistook  the  name,  or  made  some  blunder.  And 
though  she  was  ill,  she  put  on  her  hood,  and  went  herself  to 
Captain  Watson's,  though  she  knew  none  of  the  family,  to 
see  if  Mrs.  Veal  was  there  or  not.  They  said  they  wondered 
at  her  asking,  for  that  she  had  not  been  in  town;  they  were 
sure,  if  she  had,  she  would  have  been  there.  Says  Mrs. 
Bargrave :  "  I  am  sure  she  was  with  me  on  Saturday  almost 
two  hours."  They  said  it  was  impossible ;  for  they  must  have 
seen  her,  if  she  had.  In  comes  Captain  Watson  while  they 
are  in  dispute,  and  said  that  Mrs.  Veal  was  certainly  dead, 
and  her  escutcheons  were  making.  This  strangely  surprised 
Mrs.  Bargrave,  who  went  to  the  person  immediately  who 
had  the  care  of  them,  and  found  it  true.  Then  she  related  the 
whole  story  to  Captain  Watson's  family,  and  what  gown  she 
had  on,  and  how  striped;  and  that  Mrs.  Veal  told  her  it  was 
scoured.  Then  Mrs.  Watson  cried  out :  "  You  have  seen  her 
indeed,  for  none  knew  but  Mrs.  Veal  and  myself  that  the 
gown  was  scoured."  And  Mrs.  Watson  owned  that  she  de- 
scribed the  gown  exactly ;  "  for,"  said  she,  "  I  helped  her  to 
make  it  up."  This  Mrs.  Watson  blazed  all  about  the  town, 
and  avouched  the  demonstration  of  the  truth  of  Mrs.  Bar- 
grave's  seeing  Mrs.  Veal's  apparition;  and  Captain  Watson 
carried  two  gentlemen  immediately  to  Mrs.  Bargrave's  house 
to  hear  the  relation  from  her  own  mouth.  And  then  it  spread 
so  fast  that  gentlemen  and  persons  of  quality,  the  judicious 
and  sceptical  part  of  the  world,  flocked  in  upon  her,  which 
at  last  became  such  a  task  that  she  was  forced  to  go  out  of 
the  way;  for  they  were  in  general  extremely  satisfied  of  the 
truth  of  the  thing,  and  plainly  saw  that  Mrs.  Bargrave  was 


THE  APPARITION  OF  MRS.  VEAL  207 

no  hypochondriac,  for  she  always  appears  with  such  a  cheer- 
ful air  and  pleasing  mien,  that  she  has  gained  the  favour  and 
esteem  of  all  the  gentry,  and  'tis  thought  a  great  favour  if 
they  can  but  get  the  relation  from  her  own  mouth.  I  should 
have  told  you  before  that  Mrs.  Veal  told  Mrs.  Bargrave  that 
her  sister  and  brother-in-law  were  just  come  down  from 
London  to  see  her.  Says  Mrs.  Bargrave :  "  How  came  you 
to  order  matters  so  strangely  ?  "  "  It  could  not  be  helped," 
says  Mrs.  Veal.  And  her  sister  and  brother  did  come  to  see 
her,  and  entered  the  town  of  Dover  just  as  Mrs.  Veal  was 
expiring.  Mrs.  Bargrave  asked  her  whether  she  would  drink 
some  tea.  Says  Mrs.  Veal:  "  I  do  not  care  if  I  do;  but  I'll 
warrant  this  mad  fellow  [meaning  Mrs.  Bargrave's  hus- 
band] has  broke  all  your  trinkets."  "  But,"  says  Mrs.  Bar- 
grave,  "  I'll  get  something  to  drink  in  for  all  that."  But 
Mrs.  Veal  waived  it,  and  said :  "  It  is  no  matter ;  let  it  alone  " ; 
and  so  it  passed. 

All  the  time  I  sat  with  Mrs.  Bargrave,  which  was  some 
hours,  she  recollected  fresh  sayings  of  Mrs.  Veal.  And  one 
material  thing  more  she  told  Mrs.  Bargrave — that  old  Mr. 
Breton  allowed  Mrs.  Veal  ten  pounds  a  year,  which  was  a 
secret,  and  unknown  to  Mrs.  Bargrave  till  Mrs.  Veal  told 
it  her.  Mrs.  Bargrave  never  varies  in  her  story,  which  puz- 
zles those  who  doubt  of  the  truth,  or  are  unwilling  to  believe 
it.  A  servant  in  a  neighbour's  yard  adjoining  to  Mrs.  Bar- 
grave's  house  heard  her  talking  to  somebody  an  hour  of  the 
time  Mrs.  Veal  was  with  her.  Mrs.  Bargrave  went  out  to 
her  next  neighbour's  the  very  moment  she  parted  with  Mrs. 
Veal,  and  told  v/hat  ravishing  conversation  she  had  with  an 
old  friend,  and  told  the  whole  of  it.  Drelincourt's  Book  of 
Death  is,  since  this  happened,  bought  up  strangely.  And  it 
is  to  be  observed  that,  notwithstanding  all  this  trouble  and 
fatigue  Mrs.  Bargrave  has  undergone  upon  this  account,  she 
never  took  the  value  of  a  farthing,  nor  suffered  her  daughter 
to  take  anything  of  anybody,  and  ther€fore  can  have  no  inter- 
est in  telling  the  story. 

But  Mr.  Veal  does  what  he  can  to  stifle  the  matter,  and 
said  he  would  see  Mrs.  Bargrave ;  but  yet  it  is  certain  matter 
of  fact  that  he  has  been  at  Captain  Watson's  since  the  death 
of  his  sister,  and  yet  never  went  near  Mrs.  Bargrave;  and 
some  of  her  friends  report  her  to  be  a  great  liar,  and  that  she 


2o8      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

knew  of  Mr.  Breton's  ten  pounds  a  year.  But  the  person 
who  pretends  to  say  so  has  the  reputation  of  a  notorious  Har 
among  persons  whom  I  know  to  be  of  undoubted  repute. 
Now,  Mr.  Veal  is  more  a  gentleman  than  to  say  she  lies,  but 
says  a  bad  husband  has  crazed  her;  but  she  needs  only  to 
present  herself,  and  it  will  effectually  confute  that  pretence. 
Mr.  Veal  says  he  asked  his  sister  on  her  deathbed  whether 
she  had  a  mind  to  dispose  of  anything,  and  she  said :  "  No." 
Now,  the  things  which  Mrs.  Veal's  apparition  would  have 
disposed  of  were  so  trifling,  and  nothing  of  justice  aimed  at 
in  their  disposal,  that  the  design  of  it  appears  to  me  to  be 
only  in  order  to  make  Mrs.  Bargrave  so  to  demonstrate  the 
truth  of  her  appearance,  as  to  satisfy  the  world  of  the  reahty 
thereof  as  to  what  she  had  seen  and  heard,  and  to  secure  her 
reputation  among  the  reasonable  and  understanding  part  of 
mankind.  And  then  again,  Mr.  Veal  owns  that  there  was  a 
purse  of  gold ;  but  it  was  not  found  in  her  cabinet,  but  in  a 
comb-box.  This  looks  improbable;  for  that  Mrs.  Watson 
owned  that  Mrs.  Veal  was  so  very  careful  of  the  key  of  her 
cabinet,  that  she  would  trust  nobody  with  it;  and  if  so,  no 
doubt  she  would  not  trust  her  gold  out  of  it.  And  Mrs.  Veal's 
often  drawing  her  hand  over  her  eyes,  and  asking  Mrs.  Bar- 
grave  whether  her  fits  had  not  impaired  her,  looks  to  me  as 
if  she  did  it  on  purpose  to  remind  Mrs.  Bargrave  of  her  fits, 
to  prepare  her  not  to  think  it  strange  that  she  should  put  her 
upon  writing  to  her  brother  to  dispose  of  rings  and  gold, 
which  looked  so  much  like  a  dying  person's  request;  and  it 
took  accordingly  with  Mrs.  Bargrave,  as  the  effects  of  her 
fits  coming  upon  her;'and  was  one  of  the  many  instances  of 
her  wonderful  love  to  her,  and  care  of  her,  that  she  should 
not  be  affrighted;  which  indeed  appears  in  her  whole  man- 
agement, particularly  in  her  coming  to  her  in  the  daytime, 
waiving  the  salutation,  and  when  she  was  alone;  and  then 
the  manner  of  her  parting,  to  prevent  a  second  attempt  to 
salute  her. 

Now,  why  Mr.  Veal  should  think  this  relation  a  reflection 
(as  'tis  plain  he  does  by  his  endeavouring  to  stifle  it)  I  can't 
imagine,  because  the  generality  believe  her  to  be  a  good 
spirit,  her  discourse  was  so  heavenly.  Her  two  great  errands 
were  to  comfort  Mrs.  Bargrave  in  her  affliction,  and  to  ask 
her  forgiveness  for  her  breach  of  friendship,  and  with  a 


THE  APPARITION   OF  MRS.  VEAL  209 

pious  discourse  to  encourage  her.  So  that,  after  all,  to  sup- 
pose that  Mrs.  Bargrave  could  hatch  such  an  invention  as 
this  from  Friday  noon  till  Saturday  noon  (supposing  that  she 
knew  of  Mrs.  Veal's  death  the  very  first  moment),  without 
jumbling  circumstances,  and  without  any  interest  too,  she 
must  be  more  witty,  fortunate,  and  wicked  too,  than  any  in- 
different person,  I  dare  say,  will  allow.  I  asked  Mrs.  Bar- 
grave  several  times  if  she  was  sure  she  felt  the  gown.  She 
answered  modestly :  "  If  my  senses  be  to  be  relied  on,  I  am 
sure  of  itt"  I  asked  her  if  she  heard  a  sound  when  she  clapped 
her  hand  upon  her  l^nee.  She  said  she  did  not  remember 
she  did ;  and  she  said :  "  She  appeared  to  be  as  much  a  sub- 
stance as  I  did,  who  talked  with  her;  and  I  may,"  said  she, 
"  be  as  soon  persuaded  that  your  apparition  is  talking  to  me 
now  as  that  I  did  not  really  see  her ;  for  I  was  under  no  man- 
ner of  fear ;  I  received  her  as  a  friend,  and  parted  with  her  as 
such.  I  would  not,"  says  she,  "  give  one  farthing  to  make 
any  one  believe  it;  I  have  no  interest  in  it.  Nothing  but 
trouble  is  entailed  upon  me  for  a  long  time,  for  aught  I  know ; 
and  had  it  not  come  to  light  by  accident,  it  would  never  have 
been  made  public."  But  now  she  says  she  will  make  her 
own  private  use  of  it,  and  keep  herself  out  of  the  way  as  much 
as  she  can;  and  so  she  has  done  since.  She  says  she  had  a 
gentleman  who  came  thirty  miles  to  her  to  hear  the  relation, 
and  that  she  had  told  it  to  a  room  full  of  people  at  a  time. 
Several  particular  gentlemen  have  had  the  story  from  Mrs. 
Bargrave's  own  mouth. 

This  thing  has  very  much  affected  me,  and  I  am  as  well 
satisfied  as  I  am  of  the  best  grounded  matter  of  fact.  And 
why  we  should  dispute  matter  of  fact  because  we  cannot 
solve  things  of  which  we  have  no  certain  or  demonstrative 
notions,  seems  strange  to  me.  Mrs.  Bargrave's  authority  and 
sincerity  alone  would  have  been  undoubted  in  any  other  case. 


A    LIST    OF    REPRESENTATIVE    TALES    AND 
SHORT  .  STORIES 

VIII 

1750   TO    1800: 

Memnon,  Voltaire  (1750). 

Tales  (in  The  Rambler),  Samuel  Johnson  (1750-52). 

Micromegas,  Voltaire  (1752?). 

Idyllen,  S.  Gessner  (1756-1772). 

Candide,  Voltaire  (1758). 

Rasselas,  Samuel  Johnson   (1759). 

Contes  Moraux,  J.  F.  Marmontel   (1761). 

Jeannot  et  Colin,  Voltaire  (1764?). 

L'Ingenu,  Voltaire  (1767?). 

La  Princesse  de  Babylone,  Voltaire  (1768). 

L'Homme  aux  quarante  Ecus,  Voltaire  (1768). 

Le  Diable  Amoureux,  J.  Cazotte  (1772). 

Les  Deux  Amis  de  Bourbonne,  Denis  Diderot  (1773). 

Les  Oreilles  du  Comte  de  Chesterfield,  Voltaire  (1775). 

Les  Contemporaines,  Restif  de  la  Bretonne  (1780-85). 

Volksmarchen  der  Deutschen,  J.  K.  A.  Musaus  (1782-86). 

Travels  and  Surprising  Adventures  of  Baron  Miinchausen, 

R.  E.  Raspe?  (1785). 
Paul  et  Virginie,  Bernardin  de  St.  Pierre  (1786). 
Verbrecher  aus  Infamie,  Friedrich  Schiller  (1787). 
Vathek,   William  Beckford  (1787). 
*  Fables,  G.  P.  de  Florian  (1792). 
Pauline,  Mme.  de  Stael  (1793). 
Adelaide  et  Theodore,  Mme.  de  Stael   (1795). 
Mirza,  Mme.  de  Stael  (1795). 
Das  Marchen,  Goethe   (1795). 

Tales,  in  Cheap  Repository  Tracts,  Hannah  More  (1795-98). 
Tales,  Denis  Diderot,  Jacques  le  Fataliste  (1796). 
Volksmarchen,  J.  L.  Tieck  (1797). 
Ceci  n'  est  pas  un  Conte,  Denis  Diderot  (1798). 

2X1 


JEANNOT   AND    COLIN 


JEANNOT  AND  COLIN 

The  great  name  of  Voltaire  (1694-1778)  is  not  usu- 
ally associated  with  short  stories.  And  yet,  with  an 
irony  that  he  himself  would  have  appreciated,  his  short 
tales  no^  seem,  of  all  his  works,  that  part  that  will  en- 
dure the  longest.  Jeannot  and  Colin,  the  example  of  his 
fiction  presented  in  this  volume,  was  probably  written  in 
1764.  It  is  both  one  of  the  briefest  and  one  of  the  most 
artistic  of  all  Voltaire's  fictions. 

The  story  with  a  purpose,  as  has  already  been  noted, 
is  perhaps  the  most  characteristic  form  of  the  short  story 
in  the  eighteenth  century.  Take  away  the  moral  from 
Jeannot  and  Colin,  and  how  much  is  left  ?  "  It  may  be 
doubted,"  says  George  Saintsbury,  "  whether  any  of  his 
works  displays  his  peculiar  genius  more  fully  and  more 
characteristically  than  the  short  tales  in  prose  which  he 
has  left.  Every  one  of  them  has  a  moral,  political,  social, 
or  theological  purpose."  Among  Voltaire's  principal 
tales  may  be  mentioned:  Babouc  (1746),  Zadig  (1747?), 
Memnon  (1750),  Micromegas  (1752?),  Candide  (1758), 
Jeannot  and  CoHn  (1764?),  L'Ingenu  (1767?),  The 
Man  of  Forty  Crowns  (1768).  The  dates  of  many  of  his 
writings  are  uncertain,  including  those  of  the  four  tales 
queried  above. 

The  present  version  of  Jeannot  and  Colin  is  that  by 
Robert  Bruce  Boswell,  in  the  Bohn  Library. 

AUTHORITIES : 

Voltaire,  by  John  Morley. 
Life  of  Voltaire,  by  James  Parton. 
Life  of  Voltaire,  by   F.  Espinasse   (Great  Writers 
series). 


JEANNOT  AND  COLIN 

Many  trustworthy  persons  have  seen  Jeannot  and  Colin 
when  they  went^to  .school  at  Jssoire  in  Auvergne,  a  town 
famous  all  over  the  world  for  its  college  and  its  kettles, 
Jeannot  was  the  son  of  a  dealer  in  mules,  a  man  of  consider- 
able reputation ;  Colin  owed  his  existence  to  a  worthy  hus- 
bandman who  dwelt  in  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  and  culti- 
vated his  farm  with  the  help  of  four  mules,  and  who,  after 
paying  tolls  and  tallage,  scutage  and  salt-duty,  poundage, 
poll-tax,  and  tithes,  did  not  find  himself  particularly  well  off 
at  the  end  of  the  year. 

Jeannot  and  Colin  were  very  handsome  lads  for  natives 
of  Auvergne;  they  were  much  attached  to  each  other,  and 
had  little  secrets  together  ajid  private  understandings,  such 
as  old  comrades  always  recall  with  pleasure  when  they  after- 
wards meet  in  a  wider  world. 

Their  schooldays  were  drawing  near  their  end,  when  a 
tailor  oneway  brought  Jeannot  a  velvet  coat  of  three  colours 
with  a  waistcoat  of  Lyons  silk  to  match  in  excellent  taste; 
this  suit  of  clothes  was  accompanied  by  a  letter  addressed  to 
Monsieur  de  la  Jeannotiere.  Colin  admired  the  coat,  and 
was  not  at  all  jealous;  but  Jeannot  assumed  an  air  of  superi- 
ority which  distressed  Colin.  From  that  moment  Jeannot 
paid  no  more  heed  to  his  lessons,  but  was  always  looking  at 
his  reflection  in  the  glass,  and  despised  everybody  but  him- 
self. Some  time  afterwards  a  footman  arrived  post-haste, 
bringing  .-f- second  letter,  addressed  this  time  to  His  Lord- 
ship the  Marquis  de  la  Jeannotiere;  it  contained  an  order 
from  his  father  for  the  young  nobleman,  his  son,  to  be  sent 
to  Paris.  As  Jeannot  mounted  the  chaise  to  drive  off,  he 
stretched  out  his  hand  to  Colin  with  a  patronising  smile  be- 
fitting his  rank.  Colin  felt  his  own  insignificance,  and  wept. 
So  Jeannot  departed  in  all  his  glory. 

15  217 


ai8      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

Readers  who  like  to  know  all  about  things  may  be  in- 
formed that  Monsieur  Jeannot,  the  father,  had  rapidly  gained 
immense  wealth  in  business.  You  ask  how  those  great  for- 
tunes are  made?  It  all  depends  upon  luck.  Monsieur  Jean- 
notiere  had  a  comely  person,  and  so  had  his  wife ;  moreover 
her  complexion  was  fresh  and  blooming.  They  had  gone  to 
Paris  to  prosecute  a  lawsuit  which  was  ruining  them,  when 
Fortune,  who  lifts  up  and  casts  down  human  beings,  at  her 
pleasure,  presented  them  with  an  introduction  to  the  wife 
of  an  army-hospital  contractor,  a  man  of  great  talent,  who 
could  boast  of  having  killed  more  soldiers  in  one  year  than  the 
cannon  had  destroyed  in  ten.  Jeannot  took  the  lady's  fancy, 
and  Jeannot's  wife  captivated  the  gentleman.  Jeannot  soon 
became  a  partner  in  the  business,  and  entered  into  other  spec- 
ulations. When  one  is  in  the  current  of  the  stream  it  is  only 
necessary  to  let  oneself  drift,  and  so  an  immense  fortune 
may  sometimes  be  made  without  any  trouble.  The  beggars 
who  watch  you  from  the  bank,  as  you  glide  along  in  full  sail, 
open  their  eyes  in  astonishment ;  they  wonder  how  you  have 
managed  to  get  on;  they  envy  you  at  all  events,  and  write 
pamphlets  against  you  which  you  never  read.  That  was  what 
happened  to  Jeannot  senior,  who  was  soon  styled  Monsieur  de 
la  Jeannotiere,  and,  after  buying  a  marquisate  at  the  end  of 
six  months,  he  took  the  young  nobleman  his  son  away  from 
school,  to  launch  him  into  the  fashionable  world  of  Paris. 

Colin,  always  affectionately  disposed,  wrote  a  kind  letter 
to  his  old  schoolfellow  in  order  to  offer  his  congratulations. 
The  little  marquis  sent  him  no  answer,  which  grieved  Colin 
sorely. 

The  first  thing  that  his  father  and  mother  did  for  the 
young  gentleman  was  to  get  him  a  tutor.  This  tutor,  who 
was  a  man  of  distinguished  manners  and  profound  igno- 
rance, could  teach  his  pupil  nothing.  The  marquis  wished 
his  son  to  learn  Latin,  but  the  marchioness  would  not  hear 
of  it.  They  consulted  the  opinion  of  a  certain  author  who 
had  obtained  considerable  celebrity  at  that  time  from  some 
popular  works  which  he  had  written.  He  was  invited  to 
dinner,  and  the  master  of  the  house  began  by  saying : 

"  Sir,  as  you  know  Latin,  and  are  conversant  with  the 
manners  of  the  Court " 

"  I,  sir !  Latin !  I  don't  know  a  word  of  it,"   answered 


JEANNOT  AND   COLIN  ai9 

the  man  of  wit;  "  and  it  is  just  as  well  for  me  that  I  don't, 
for  one  can  speak  one's  own  language  better,  when  the 
attention  is  not  divided  between  it  and  foreign  tongues. 
Look  at  all  our  ladies;  they  are  far  more  charming  in  con- 
versation than  men,  their  letters  are  written  with  a  hun- 
dred times  more  grace  of  expression.  They  owe  that  supe- 
riority over  us  to  nothing  else  but  their  ignorance  of  Latin." 

"  There  now  !  Was  I  not  right  ?  "  said  the  lady.  "  I  want 
my  son  to  be  a  man  of  wit,  and  to  make  way  in  the  world. 
You  see  tliat  if  he  were  to  learn  Latin,  it  would  be  his  ruin. 
Tell  me,  if  you  please,  are  plays  and  operas  performed  in 
Latin?  Are  the  proceedings  in  court  conducted  in  Latin, 
when  one  has  a  lawsuit  on  hand?  Do  people  make  love  in 
Latin  ?  " 

The  marquis,  confounded  by  these  arguments,  passed  sen- 
tence, and  it  was  decided  that  the  young  nobleman  should 
not  waste  his  time  in  studying  Cicero,  Horace,  and  Virgil. 

"  But  what  is  he  to  learn  then?  For  still,  I  suppose,  he 
will  have  to  know  something.  Might  he  not  be  taught  a  little 
geography  ?  " 

"  What  good  will  that  do  him  ? "  answered  the  tutor. 
"  When  my  lord  marquis  goes  to  visit  his  country-seat,  will 
not  his  postillions  know  the  roads?  There  will  be  no  fear  of 
their  going  astray.  One  does  not  want  a  sextant  in  order 
to  travel,  and  it  is  quite  possible  to  make  a  journey  between 
Paris  and  Auvergne  without  knowing  anything  about  the 
latitude  and  longitude  of  either." 

"  Very  true,"  replied  the  father ;  "  but  I  have  heard  people 
speak  of  a  noble  science,  which  is,  I  think,  called  astronomy." 

"  Bless  my  soul !  "  rejoined  the  tutor.  "  Do  we  regulate 
our  behaviour  in  this  world  by  the  stars?  Why  should  my 
lord  marquis  wear  himself  out  in  calculating  an  eclipse,  when 
he  will  find  it  predicted  correctly  to  a  second  in  the  almanac, 
which  will  moreover  inform  him  of  all  the  movable  feasts, 
the  age  of  the  moon,  and  that  of  all  the  princesses  in  Eu- 
rope?" 

The  marchioness  was  quite  of  the  tutor's  opinion,  the 
little  marquis  was  in  a  state  of  the  highest  delight,  and  his 
father  was  very  undecided. 

"  What  then  is  my  son  to  be  taught?  "  said  he. 

"  To  make  himself  agreeable,"  answered  the  friend  whom 


2  20      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

they  had  consulted ;  "  for,  if  he  knows  the  way  to  please, 
he  will  know  everything  worth  knowing;  it  is  an  art  which 
he  will  learn  from  her  ladyship,  his  mother,  without  the  least 
trouble  to  either  of  them/' 

The  marchioness,  at  these  words,  smiled  graciously  upon 
the  courtly  ignoramus,  and  said: 

It  is  easy  to  see,  sir,  that  you  are  a  most  accomplished 
gentleman;  my  son  will  owe  all  his  education  to  you.  I 
imagine,  however,  that  it  will  not  be  a  bad  thing  for  him  to 
know  a  Httle  history." 

"  Nay,  madame — what  good  would  that  do  him  ?  "  he  an- 
swered. "  Assuredly  the  only  entertaining  and  useful  history 
is  that  of  the  passing  hour.  All  ancient  histories,  as  one  of 
our  clever  writers  ^  has  observed,  are  admitted  to  be  nothing 
but  fables;  and  for  us  moderns  it  is  an  inextricable  chaos. 
What  does  it  matter  to  the  young  gentleman,  your  son,  if 
Charlemagne  instituted  the  twelve  Paladins  of  France,  or  if 
his  successor "  had  an  impediment  in  his  speech  ?  " 

"  Nothing  was  ever  said  more  wisely !  "  exclaimed  the 
tutor.  "  The  minds  of  children  are  smothered  under  a  mass 
of  useless  knowledge;  but  of  all  sciences  that  which  seems 
to  me  the  most  absurd,  and  the  one  best  adapted  to  extinguish 
every  spark  of  genius,  is  geometry.  That  ridiculous  science 
is  concerned  with  surfaces,  lines,  and  points  which^have  no 
existence  in  nature.  In  imagination  a  hundred  thousand 
curved  lines  may  be  made  to  pass  between  a  circle  and  a 
straight  line  which  touches  it,  although  in  reality  you  could 
not  insert  so  much  as  a  straw.  Geometry,  indeed,  is  nothing 
more  than  a  bad  joke."  ^ 

The  marquis  and  his  lady  did  not  understand  much  of 
the  meaning  of  what  the  tutor  was  saying;  but  they  were 
quite  of  his  way  of  thinking. 

"  A  nobleman  like  his  lordship,"  he  continued,  "  should 
not  dry  up  his  brain  with  such  unprofitable  studies.  If, 
some  day,  he  should  require  one  of  those  sublime  geometri- 
cians to  draw  a  plan  of  his  estates,  he  can  have  them  meas- 
ured for  his  money.     If  he   should  wish  to   trace  out  the 

»  Bernard  Fontenelle,  who  died  in  the  year  1757.— [Ed.] 
*  Louis  le  B6gue,  i.  e.,  the  Stammerer,  was  third  in  succession 
from  Charlemagne. — [Ed.] 


JEANNOT  AND  COLIN  «lt 

antiquity  of  his  lineage,  which  goes  back  to  the  most  remote 
ages,  all  he  will  have  to  do  will  be  to  send  for  some  learned 
Benedictine.  It  is  the  same  with  all  the  other  arts.  A  young 
lord  born  under  a  lucky  star  is  neither  a  painter,  nor  a 
musician,  nor  an  architect,  nor  a  sculptor ;  but  he  may  make 
all  these  arts  flourish  by  encouraging  them  with  his  generous 
approval.  Doubtless  it  is  much  better  to  patronise  than  to 
practise  them.  It  will  be  quite  enough  if  my  lord  the  young 
marquis  has  taste;  it  is  the  part  of  artists  to  work  for  him, 
and  thus  there  is  a  great  deal  of  truth  in  the  remark  that 
people  of  quality  (that  is,  if  they  are  very  rich)  know  every- 
thing without  learning  anything,  because,  in  point  of  fact 
and  in  the  long  run,  they  are  masters  of  all  the  knowledge 
which  they  can  command  and  pay  for." 

The  agreeable  ignoramus  then  took  part  again  in  the  con- 
versation, and  said: 

"  You  have  well  remarked,  madame,  that  the  great  end  of 
man's  existence  is  to  succeed  in  society.  Is  it,  forsooth, 
any  aid  to  the  attainment  of  this  succ^ess  to  have  devoted 
oneself  to  the  sciences?  Does  any  one  ever  think  in  select 
company  of  talking  about  geometry?  Is  a  well-bred  gentle- 
man ever  asked  what  star  rises  to-day  with  the  sun?  Does 
any  one  at  the  supper-table  ever  want  to  know  if  Clodion  the 
Long-Haired  crossed  the  Rhine?  "  ^ 

"  No,  indeed !  "  exclaimed  the  Marchioness  de  la  Jean- 
notiere,  whose  charms  had  been  her  passport  into  the  world 
of  fashion ;  "  and  my  son  must  not  stifle  his  genius  by  study- 
ing all  that  trash.  But,  after  all,  what  is  he  to  be  taught? 
For  it  is  a  good  thing  that  a  young  lord  should  be  able  to 
shine  when  occasion  offers,  as  my  noble  husband  has  said. 
I  remember  once  hearing  an  abbe  remark  that  the  most  en- 
tertaining science  was  something  the  name  of  which  I  have 
forgotten — it  begins  with   a  b." 

"  With  a  b,  madame  ?    It  was  not  botany,  was  it  ?  " 

"  No,  it  certainly  was  not  botany  that  he  mentioned ;  it 
began,  as  I  tell  you,  with  a  b,  and  ended  in  onry.'' 

"  Ah,  madame,  I  understand !  It  was  blazonry  or  her- 
aldry. That  is  indeed  a  most  profound  science;  but  it  has 
ceased  to  be  fashionable  since  the  custom  has  died  out  of 
having  one's  coat  of  arms  painted  on  the  carriage-doors;  it 
was  the  most  useful  thing  imaginable  in  a  well-ordered  state. 


m  THE  BOOK:  OP  THE  SHORT  STORY 

Besides,  that  line  of  study  would  be  endless,  for  at  the  pres- 
ent day  there  is  not  a  barber  who  is  without  his  armorial 
bearings,  and  you  know  that  whatever  becomes  common  loses 
its  attraction." 

Finally,  after  all  the  pros  and  cons  of  the  different  sci- 
ences had  been  examined  and  discussed,  it  was  decided  that 
the  young  marquis  should  learn  dancing. 

Dame  Nature,  who  disposes  everything  at  her  own  will 
and  pleasure,  had  given  him  a  talent  which  soon  developed 
itself  with  prodigious  success;  it  was  that  of  singing  street- 
ballads  in  a  charming  style.  His  youthful  grace  accom- 
panying this  superlative  gift,  caused  him  to  be  regarded  as 
a  young  man  of  the  highest  promise,  He  was  a  favourite 
with  the  ladies,  and,  having  his  head  crammed  with  songs, 
he  had  no  lack  of  mistresses  to  whom  to  address  his  verses. 
He  stole  the  line,  "  Bacchus  with  the  Loves  at  play,"  from 
one  ballad ;  and  made  it  rhyme  with  "  night  and  day  "  taken 
out  of  another,  while  a  third  furnished  him  with  "  charms  " 
and  "  alarms."  But  inasmuch  as  there  were  always  some 
feet  more  or  less  than  were  wanted  in  his  verses,  he  had 
them  corrected  at  the  rate  of  twenty  sovereigns  a  song. 
And  The  Literary  Year  placed  him  in  the  same  rank  with 
such  sonneteers  as  La  Fare,  Chaulieu,  Hamilton,  Sarrasin, 
and  Voiture. 

Her  ladyship  the  marchioness  then  believed  that  she  was 
indeed  the  mother  of  a  genius,  and  gave  a  supper  to  all  the 
wits  of  Paris,  The  young  man's  head  was  soon  turned 
upside  down,  he  acquired  the  art  of  talking  without  knowing 
the  meaning  of  what  he  said,  and  perfected  himself  in  the 
habit  of  being  fit  for  nothing.  When  his  father  saw  him  so 
eloquent,  he  keenly  regretted  that  he  had  not  had  him  taught 
Latin,  or  he  would  have  purchased  some  high  appointment 
for  him  in  the  Law.  His  mother,  who  was  of  more  heroic 
sentiments,  took  upon  herself  to  solicit  a  regiment  for  her 
son;  in  the  meantime  he  made  love — and  love  is  some- 
times more  expensive  than  a  regiment.  He  squandered  his 
money  freely,  while  his  parents  drained  their  purses  and 
credit  to  a  lower  and  lower  ebb  by  living  in  the  grandest 
style. 

A  young  widow  of  good  position  in  their  neighbourhood, 
who  had   only    a   moderate    income,   was  well   enough   dis- 


JEANNOT  AND  COLIN  223 

posed  to  make  some  effort  to  prevent  the  great  wealth  of 
the  Marquis  and  Marchioness  de  la  Jeannotiere  from  going 
altogether,  by  marrying  the  young  marquis  and  so  appro- 
priating what  remained.  She  enticed  him  to  her  house,  let 
him  make  love  to  her,  allowed  him  to  see  that  she  was  not 
quite  indifferent  to  him,  led  him  on  by  degrees,  enchanted 
him,  and  made  him  her  devoted  slave  without  the  least 
difficulty.  She  would  give  him  at  one  time  commendation 
and  at  another  time  counsel ;  she  became  his.  father's  and 
mother's  t)est  friend.  An  old  neighbour  proposed  marriage; 
the  parents,  dazzled  with  the  splendour  of  the  alHance,  joy- 
fully fell  in  with  the  scheme,  and  gave  their  only  son  to 
their  most  intimate  lady  friend.  The  young  marquis  was  thus 
about  to  wed  a  woman  whom  he  adored,  and  by  whom  he 
was  beloved  in  return.  The  friends  of  the  family  congratu- 
lated him,  the  marriage  settlement  was  on  the  point  of  being 
signed,  the  bridal  dress  and  the  epithalamium  were  both  well 
under  way. 

One  morning  our  young  gentleman  was  on  his  knees  be- 
fore the  charmer  whom  fond  affection  and  esteem  were  so 
soon  to  make  his  own;  they  were  tasting  in  animated  and 
tender  converse  the  first  fruits  of  future  happiness ;  they  were 
settling  how  they  should  lead  a  life  of  perfect  bliss,  when  one 
of  his  lady  mother's  footmen  presented  himself^  scared  out 
of  his  wits. 

"  Here's  fine  news  which  may  surprise  you ! "  said  he ; 
"  the  bailiffs  are  in  the  house  of  my  lord  and  lady,  remov- 
ingthe  furniture.  All  has  been  seized  by  the  creditors.  They 
talk  of  personal  arrest,  and  I  am  going  to  do  what  I  can  to 
get  my  wages  paid." 

"  Let  us  see  what  has  happened,"  said  the  marquis,  "  and 
discover  the  meaning  of  all  this." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  widow,  "  go  and  punish  those  rascals — 
go,  quick !  " 

He  hurried  homewards,  he  arrived  at  the  house,  his  father 
was  already  in  prison,  all  the  servants  had  fled,  each  in  a  dif- 
ferent direction,  carrying  off  whatever  they  could  lay  theit" 
hands  upon.  His  mother  was  alone,  helpless,  forlorn,  and 
bathed  in  tears;  she  had  nothing  left  her  but  the  remem- 
brance of  her  former  prosperity,  her  beauty,  her  faults,  and 
her  foolish  extravagance. 


2  24      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

After  the  son  had  condoled  with  his  mother  for  a  long 
time,  he  said  at  last: 

"Let  us  not  despair;  this  young  widow  loves  me  to  dis- 
traction ;  she  is  even  more  generous  than  she  is  wealthy,  I 
can  assure  you;  I  will  fly  to  her  for  succour,  and  bring  her 
to  you." 

So  he  returns  to  his  mistress,  and  finds  her  conversing  in 
private  with  a  fascinating  young  officer. 

"  What !  Is  that  you,  my  Lord  de  la  Jeannotiere?  What 
business  have  you  with  me  ?  How  can  you  leave  your  mother 
by  herself  in  this  way  ?  Go,  and  stay  with  the  poor  woman, 
and  tell  her  that  she  shall  always  have  my  good  wishes.  I 
am  in  want  of  a  waiting-woman  now,  and  will  gladly  give 
her  the  preference." 

"  My  lad,"  said  the  officer,  "  you  seem  pretty  tall  and 
straight ;  if  you  would  like  to  enter  my  company,  I  will  make 
it  worth  your  while  to  enlist." 

The  marquis,  stupefied  with  astonishment,  and  secretly 
enraged,  went  off  in  search  of  his  former  tutor,  confided  to 
him  all  his  troubles,  and  asked  his  advice.  He  proposed 
that  he  should  become,  like  himself,  a  tutor  of  the  young. 

"Alas!  I  know  nothing;  you  have  taught  me  nothing 
whatever,  and  you  are  the  primary  cause  of  all  my  unhappi- 
ness."    And  as  he  spoke  he  began  to  sob. 

"  Write  novels,"  said  a  wit  who  was  present ;  "  it  is  an 
excellent  resource  to  fall  back  upon  at  Paris." 

The  young  man,  in  more  desperate  straits  than  ever, 
hastened  to  the  house  of  his  mother's  father  confessor;  he 
was  a  Theatine  ^  monk  of  the  very  highest  reputation,  who 
directed  the  souls  of  none  but  ladies  of  the  first  rank  in  soci- 
ety. As  soon  as  he  saw  him,  the  reverend  gentleman  rushed 
to  meet  him. 

"  Good  gracious !  My  lord  marquis,  where  is  your  car- 
riage?   How  is  your  honoured  mother,  the  marchioness?" 

The  unfortunate  young  fellow  related  the  disaster  that  had 
befallen  his  family.    As  he  explained  the  matter  further  the 

— ■ i- 

*  The  Theatines  are  a  religious  brotherhood  now  confined  to 
Italy,  formed  in  1524.  Their  first  superior  was  one  of  the  four 
founders  of  the  order,  Caraffa,  Bishop  of  Theate  (Chieti);  hence 
th?ir  name. — [Ed.] 


JEANNOT  AND   COLIN  «a5 

Theatine  assumed  a  graver  air,  one  of  less  concern  and  more 
self-importance. 

"  My  son,  herein  you  may  see  the  hand  of  Providence ; 
riches  serve  only  to  corrupt  the  heart.  The  Almighty  has 
shown  special  favour  then  to  your  mother  in  reducing  her 
to  beggary.  Yes,  sir,  so  much  the  better ! — she  is  now  sure 
of  her  salvation." 

"  But,  father,  in  the  meantime  are  there  no  means  of 
obtaining  some  succour  in  this  world  ?  " 

"  Farewell,  my  son !  There  is  a  lady  of  the  Court  wait- 
ing for  me." 

The  marquis  felt  ready  to  faint.  He  was  treated  after 
much  the  same  manner  by  all  his  friends,  and  learned  to 
know  the  world  better  in  half  a  day  than  in  all  the  rest  of 
his  life. 

As  he  was  plunged  in  overwhelming  despair,  he  saw  an 
old-fashioned  travelling-chaise,  more  like  a  covered  tumbril 
than  anything  else,  and  furnished  with  leather  curtains,  fol- 
lowed by  four  enormous  waggons  all  heavily  laden.  In  the 
chaise  was  a  young  man  in  rustic  attire ;  his  round  and  rubi- 
cund face  had  an  air  of  kindness  and  good  temper.  His 
little  wife,  whose  sunburnt  countenance  had  a  pleasing  if 
not  a  refined  expression,  was  jolted  about  as  she  sat  beside 
him.  The  vehicle  did  not  go  quite  so  fast  as  a  dandy's 
chariot,  the  traveller  had  plenty  of  time  to  look  at  the  mar- 
quis, as  he  stood  motionless,  absorbed  in  his  grief. 

"  Oh  !  good  Heavens  !  "  he  exclaimed ;  "  I  believe  that  is 
Jeannot  there !  " 

Hearing  that  name  the  marquis  raised  his  eyes — the  chaise 
stopped. 

"  'Tis  Jeannot  himself  !    Yes,  it  is  Jeannot !  " 

The  plump  little  man  with  one  leap  sprang  to  the  ground, 
and  ran  to  embrace  his  old  companion.  Jeannot  recog- 
nised Colin;  signs  of  sorrow  and  shame  covered  his  coun- 
tenance. 

"  You  have  forsaken  your  old  friend,"  said  Colin ;  "  but 
be  you  as  grand  a  lord  as  you  like,  I  shall  never  cease  to 
love  you." 

Jeannot,  confounded  and  cut  to  the  heart,  told  him  with 
sobs  something  of  his  history. 

"  Come  into  the  inn  where  I  am  lodging,  and  tell  me  the 


226  THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

rest,"  said  Colin;  "kiss  my  little  wife,  and  let  us  go  and 
dine  together." 

They  went,  all  three  of  them,  on  foot,  and  the  baggage 
followed. 

"  What  in  the  world  is  all  this  paraphernalia  ?  Does  it 
belong  to  you  ?  " 

"Yes,  it  is  all  mine  and  my  wife's;  we.  are  just  come 
from  .the  country.  I  am  at  the  head  of  a  large  tin,  iron, 
and  copper  factory,  and  have  married  the  daughter  of  a 
rich  tradesman  and  general  provider  of  all  useful  commodi- 
ties for  great  folks  and  small.  We  work  hard,  and  God  gives 
us  his  blessing.  We  are  satisfied  with  our  condition  in  life, 
and  are  quite  happy.  We  will  help  our  friend  Jeannot.  Give 
up  being  a  marquis;  all  the  grandeur  in  the  world  is  not 
equal  in  value  to  a  good  friend.  You  will  return  with  me 
into  the  country ;  I  will  teach  you  my  trade,  it  is  not  a  diffi- 
cult one  to  learn ;  I  will  give  you  a  share  in  the  business,  and 
we  will  live  together  with  light  hearts  in  that  corner  of  the 
earth  where  we  were  born." 

Jeannot,  overcome  by  this  kindness,  felt  himself  divided 
between  sorrow  and  joy,  tenderness  and  shame ;  and  he  said 
within  himself: 

"  All  my  fashionable  friends  have  proved  false  to  me,  and 
Colin,  whom  I  despised,  is  the  only  one  who  comes  to  my 
succour.    What  a  lesson  !  " 

Colin's  generosity  developed  in  Jeannot's  heart  the  germ 
of  that  good  disposition  which  the  world  had  not  yet  choked. 
He  felt  that  he  could  not  desert  his  father  and  mother. 

"  We  will  take  care  of  your  mother,"  said  Colin ;  "  and 
as  for  the  good  man  your  father,  who  is  in  prison — I  know 
something  of  business  matters — his  creditors,  when  they  see 
that  he  has  nothing  more,  will  agree  to  a  moderate  composi- 
tion.   I  will  see  to  all  that  myself." 

Colin  was  as  good  as  his  word,  and  succeeded  in  effecting 
the  father's  release  from  prison.  Jeannot  returned  to  his  old 
home  with  his  parents,  who  resumed  their  former  occupa- 
tion. He  married  Colin's  sister,  who,  being  like  her  brother 
in  disposition,  rendered  her  husband  very  happy.  And  so 
Jeannot  the  father,  and  Jeannotte  the  mother,  and  Jeannot 
the  son  came  to  see  that  vanity  is  no  true  source  of  hap- 
piness. 


A    LIST    OF   REPRESENTATIVE    TALES    AND 
SHORT   STORIES 

IX 

1 800  TO  1820: 

Moral  Tales,  Maria  Edgeworth   (1801). 

Atala,  F.  R.  A,  Chateaubriand  (1801). 

Nouveaux  Contes  Moraux,  J.  F.  Marmontel  (1801). 

Rene,  F.  R.  A.  Chateaubriand  (1802). 

Tales  of  Fashionable  Life   (ist  series),  Maria  Edgeworth 

(1809). 
Reise  des  Feldpredigers  Schmelzle  nach  Flaz,  J.  P.  F.  Richter 

(1809). 
Die  Neue  Melusine,  Goethe  (1809). 
Undine,  F.  de  la  Motte  Fouque  (1811). 
Le  Lepreux  de  la  Cite  d'Aoste,  Xavier  de  Maistre  (1812). 
Tales  of  Fashionable  Life   (2d   series),   Maria  Edgeworth 

(18.2). 

Kinder-   und    Haus-Marchen,   Jacob    and   Wilhelm    Grimm 

(1812-1815). 
Peter    Schlemihls    Wundersame   Geschichte,    A.    von    Cha- 

misso  (1814). 
Phantasiestiicke,  Amadaus  Hoffman  (1814-15). 
La  Jeune  Siberienne,  Xavier  de  Maistre  (1815). 
Les  Prisonniers  du  Caucase,  Xavier  de  Maistre  (1815). 
Deutsche  Sagen,  Jacob  and  Wilhelm  Grimm  (1816-1818). 
Nachtstiicke,  Amadaus  Hoffman  (1817). 
Die    Geschichte    vom    Braven  Kasperl,    Clemens  Brentano 

(1817). 

The  Sketch-Book,  Washington  Irving  (1819). 
Die  Serapionsbriider,  Amadaus  Hoffman  (1819-21). 
A  Tale  for  a  Chimney  Corner  (in  The  Indicator),  Leigh 
Hunt  (1819). 

M7 


RIP    VAN   WINKLE 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE 

In  May,  1819,  appeared  the  first  part  of  The  Sketch- 
Book,  by  Washington  Irving  (1783-1859).  The  parts 
were  collected  in  a  volume  in  1820.  Among  other 
stories  in  the  book  was  Rip  Van  Winkle:  A  Posthu- 
mous Writing  of  Diedrich  Knickerbocker.  Diedrich 
Knickerbocker  may  require  a  word  of  explanation.  Un- 
der that  pseudonym  Irving  had  published  his  Knicker- 
bocker's History  of  New  York  (1809).  Knickerbocker 
was  the  "  small,  elderly  gentleman,  dressed  in  an  old 
black  coat  and  cocked  hat,"  who  had  left  his  lodgings,  ac- 
cording to  the  Evening  Post  of  late  October,  1809,  neg- 
lecting to  take  with  him,  as  it  developed  later,  "  a  very 
curious  kind  of  written  book,"  which  proved  to  be  A  His- 
tory of  New  York,  by  Diedrich  Knickerbocker.  This 
clever  advertisement  was  so  successful  that  Rip  Van 
Winkle  and  The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow  were  later  put 
forth  as  Knickerbocker's  contribution  to  The  Sketch- 
Book.  With  the  name  of  Diedrich  Knickerbocker  must 
have  gone  a  potent  spell,  for  of  all  Irving's  writings  these 
two  tales  now  seem  destined  to  survive  the  longest. 

Of  Rip  Van  Winkle,  "  it  is  the  more  remarkable  and 
interesting,"  writes  George  William  Curtis,  *'  because, 
although  the  first  American  creation,  it  is  not  in  the  least 
characteristic  of  American  life,  but,  on  the  contrary,  is  a 
quiet  and  delicate  satire  upon  it.  The  kindly  vagabond 
asserts  the  charm  of  loitering  idleness  in  the  sweet  leisure 
of  woods  and  fields  against  the  characteristic  excitement 
of  the  overflowing  crowd  and  crushing  competition  of 
the  city."    It  is  not  merely  the  story's  kindly  humour,  it 

231 


2  32  THE   BOOK   OF  THE   SHORT   STORY 

is  also  the  truth  of  the  character  and  the  beauty  of  the 
conception,  that  has  proved  so  alluring. 

Irving's  principal  collections  of  short  stories  and 
sketches,  in  addition  to  The  Sketch-Book  (1819),  are: 
Bracebridge  Hall  (1822),  Tales  of  a  Traveler  (1824), 
and  Wolfert's  Roost  (1855). 


AUTHORITIES  I 

Literary  and  Social  Essays,  by  George  William 
Curtis. 

Washington  Irving,  by  Charles  Dudley  Warner 
(American  Men  of  Letters  series). 

The  Life  and  Letters  of  Washington  Irving,  by 
Pierre  M.  Irving. 

A  History  of  American  Literature,  by  William  P. 
Trent  (Literatures  of  the  World  series). 

The  Short  Story  in  English,  by  Henry  Seidel  Canby 
(Chapter  X). 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE 

A   POSTHUMOUS   WRITING   OF   DIEDRICH 
KNICKERBOCKER 

By  Woden,  God  of  Saxons, 

From  whence  comes  Wensday,  that  is  Wodensday, 

Truth  is  a  thing  that  ever  I  will  keep 

Unto  thylke  day  in  which  I  creep  into 

My  sepulchre Cartwright. 

[The  following  tale  was  found  among  the  papers  of  the 
late  Diedrieh  Knickerbocker,  an  old  gentleman  of  New  York, 
who  was  very  curious  in  the  Dutch  history  of  the  province, 
and  the  manners  of  the  descendants  from  its  primitive  set- 
tlers. His  historical  researches,  however,  did  not  lie  so  much 
among  books  as  among  men ;  for  the  former  are  lamentably 
scanty  on  his  favourite  topics ;  whereas  he  found  the  old 
burghers,  and  still  more  their  wives,  rich  in  that  legendary 
lore  so  invaluable  to  true  history.  Whenever,  therefore,  he 
happened  upon  a  genuine  Dutch  family,  snugly  shut  up  in  its 
low-roofed  farmhouse,  under  a  spreading  sycamore,  he  looked 
upon  it  as  a  little  clasped  volume  of  black-letter,  and  studied 
it  with  the  zeal  of  a  bookworm. 

The  result  of  these  researches  was  a  history  of  the  prov- 
ince during  the  reign  of  the  Dutch  governors,  which  he  pub- 
lished some  years  since.  There  have  been  various  opinions 
as  to  the  literary  character  of  his  work,  and,  to  tell  the  truth, 
it  is  not  a  whit  better  than  it  should  be.  Its  chief  merit  is  its 
scrupulous  accuracy,  which  indeed  was  a  little  questioned  on 
its  first  appearance,  but  has  since  been  completely  established ; 
and  it  is  now  admitted  into  all  historical  collections  as  a  book 
of  unquestionable  authority. 

The  old  gentleman  died  shortly  after  the  publication  of 

16  233 


234      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

his  work;  and  now  that  he  is  dead  and  gone,  it  cannot  do 
much  harm  to  his  memory  to  say  that  his  time  might  have 
been  much  better  employed  in  weightier  labours.  He,  how- 
ever, was  apt  to  ride  his  hobby  in  his  own  way;  and  though 
it  did  now  and  then  kick  up  the  dust  a  little  in  the  eyes  of 
his  neighbours,  and  grieve  the  spirit  of  some  friends,  for 
whom  he  felt  the  truest  deference  and  affection,  yet  his  errors 
and  follies  are  remembered  "  more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger  ", 
and  it  begins  to  be  suspected  that  he  never  intended  to  injure 
or  offend.  But  however  his  memory  may  be  appreciated  by 
critics,  it  is  still  held  dear  by  many  folk  whose  good  opinion 
is  well  worth  having;  particularly  by  certain  biscuit-bakers, 
who  have  gone  so  far  as  to  imprint  his  likeness  on  their  New 
Year  cakes;  and  have  thus  given  him  a  chance  for  immor- 
tality, almost  equal  to  the  being  stamped  on  a  Waterloo  medal, 
or  a  Queen  Anne's  farthing.] 

Whoever  has  made  a  voyage  up  the  Hudson  must  remem- 
ber the  Kaatskill  Mountains.  They  are  a  dismembered  branch 
of  the  great  Appalachian  family,  and  are  seen  away  to  the 
west  of  the  river,  swelling  up  to  a  noble  height,  and  lording 
it  over  the  surrounding  country.  Every  change  of  season, 
every  change  of  weather,  indeed,  every  hour  of  the  day, 
produces  some  change  in  the  magical  hues  and  shapes  of 
these  mountains,  and  they  are  regarded  by  all  the  good  wives, 
far  and  near,  as  perfect  barometers.  When  the  weather  is 
fair  and  settled,  they  are  clothed  in  blue  and  purple,  and 
print  their  bold  outlines  on  the  clear  evening  sky;  but  some- 
times, when  the  rest  of  the  landscape  is  cloudless,  they  will 
gather  a  hood  of  gray  vapours  about  their  summits,  which, 
in  the  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  will  glow  and  light  up  like 
a  grown  of  glory. 

At  the  foot  of  these  fairy  mountains,  the  voyager  may 
have  descried  the  light  smoke  curling  up  from  a  village, 
whose  shingle-roofs  gleam  among  the  trees,  just  where  the 
blue  tints  of  the  upland  melt  away  into  the  fresh  green  of 
the  nearer  landscape.  It  is  a  little  village,  of  great  antiquity, 
having  been  founded  by  some  of  the  Dutch  colonists  in  the 
early  time  of  the  province,  just  about  the  beginning  of  the 
government  of  the  good  Peter  Stuyvesant  (may  he  rest  in 
peace!),  and  there  were  some  of  the  houses  of  the  original 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE  235 

settlers  standing  within  a  few  years,  built  of  small  yellow 
bricks  brought  from  Holland,  having  latticed  windows  and 
gable  fronts,  surmounted  with  weathercocks. 

In  that  same  village,  and  in  one  of  these  very  houses 
(which,  to  tell  the  precise  truth,  was  sadly  time-worn  and 
weather-beaten),  there  lived,  many  years  since,  while  the 
country  was  yet  a  province  of  Great  Britain,  a  simple,  good- 
natured  fellow,  of  the  name  of  Rip  Van  Winkle.  He  was  a 
descendant  of  the  Van  Winkles  who  figured  so  gallantly  in 
the  chivalrous  days  of  Peter  Stuyvesant,  and  accompanied 
him  to  the  siege  of  Fort  Christina.  He  inherited,  however, 
but  little  of  the  martial  character  of  his  ancestors.  I  have 
observed  that  he  was  a  simple,  good-natured  man;  he  was, 
moreover,  a  kind  neighbour,  and  an  obedient,  henpecked 
husband.  Indeed,  to  the  latter  circumstance  might  be  owing 
that  meekness  of  spirit  which  gained  him  such  universal  popu- 
larity ;  for  those  men  are  most  apt  to  be  obsequious  and  concil- 
iating abroad  who  are  under  the  discipline  of  shrews  at  home. 
Their  tempers,  doubtless,  are  rendered  pliant  and  malleable 
in  the  fiery  furnace  of  domestic  tribulation;  and  a  curtain- 
lecture  is  worth  all  the  sermons  in  the  world  for  teaching 
the  virtues  of  patience  and  long-suffering.  A  termagant 
wife  may,  therefore,  in  some  respects,  be  considered  a  toler- 
able blessing;  and,  if  so.  Rip  Van  Winkle  was  thrice  blessed. 

Certain  it  is,  that  he  was  a  great  favourite  among  all  the 
good  wives  of  the  village,  who,  as  usual  with  the  amiable  sex, 
took  his  part  in  all  family  squabbles ;  and  never  failed,  when- 
ever they  talked  those  matters  over  in  their  evening  gossip- 
ings,  to  lay  all  the  blame  on  Dame  Van  Winkle.  The  children 
of  the  village,  tbo,  would  shout  with  joy  whenever  he  ap- 
proached. He  assisted  at  their  sports,  made  their  playthings, 
taught  them  to  fly  kites  and  shoot  marbles,  and  told  them 
long  stories  of  ghosts,  witches,  and  Indians.  Whenever  he 
went  dodging  about  the  village  he  was  surrounded  by  a  troop 
of  them,  hanging  on  his  skirts,  clambering  on  his  back,  and 
playing  a  thousand  tricks  on  him  with  impunity;  and  not  a 
dog  would  bark  at  him  throughout  the  neighbourhood. 

The  great  error  in  Rip's  composition  was  an  insuperable 
aversion  to  all  kinds  of  profitable  labour.  It  could  not  be 
from  the  want  of  assiduity  or  perseverance,  for  he  would  sit 
on  a  wet  rock,  with  a  rod  as  long  and  heavy  as  a  Tartar's 


236      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

lance,  and  fish  all  day  long  without  a  murmur,  even  though 
he  should  not  be  encouraged  by  a  single  nibble.  He  would 
carry  a  fowling-piece  on  his  shoulder  for  hours  together, 
trudging  through  woods  and  swamps,  and  up  hill  and  down 
dale,  to  shoot  a  few  squirrels  or  wild  pigeons.  He  would 
never  refuse  to  assist  a  neighbour  even  in  the  roughest  toil, 
and  was  a  foremost  man  at  all  country  frolics  for  husking 
Indian  corn  or  building  stone  fences;  the  women  of  the  vil- 
lage, too,  used  to  employ  him  to  run  their  errands,  and  to  do 
such  little  odd  jobs  as  their  less  obliging  husbands  would 
not  do  for  them.  In  a  word,  Rip  was  ready  to  attend  to 
anybody's  business  but  his  own ;  but  as  to  doing  family  duty, 
and  keeping  his  farm  in  order,  he  found  it  impossible. 

In  fact,  he  declared  it  was  of  no  use  to  work  on  his  farm ; 
it  was  the  most  pestilent  little  piece  of  ground  in  the  whole 
country;  everything  about  it  went  wrong,  and  would  go 
wrong,  in  spite  of  him.  His  fences  were  continually  falling 
to  pieces ;  his  cow  would  either  go  astray,  or  get  among  the 
cabbages;  weeds  were  sure  to  grow  quicker  in  his  fields  than 
anywhere  else;  the  rain  always  made  a  point  of  setting  in 
just  as  he  had  some  out-of-door  work  to  do;  so  that  though 
his  patrimonial  estate  had  dwindled  away  under  his  manage- 
ment, acre  by  acre,  until  there  was  little  more  left  than  a  mere 
patch  of  Indian  corn  and  potatoes,  yet  it  was  the  worst  con- 
ditioned farm  in  the  neighbourhood. 

His  children,  too,  were  as  ragged  and  wild  as  if  they 
belonged  to  nobody.  His  son  Rip,  an  urchin  begotten  in  his 
own  likeness,  promised  to  inherit  the  habits,  with  the  old 
clothes,  of  his  father.  He  was  generally  seen  trooping  like 
a  colt  at  his  mother's  heels,  equipped  in  a  palir  of  his  father's 
cast-off  galligaskins,  which  he  had  much  ado  to  hold  up  with 
one  hand,  as  a  fine  lady  does  her  train  in  bad  weather. 

Rip  Van  Winkle,  however,  was  one  of  those  happy  mor- 
tals, of  foolish,  well-oiled  dispositions,  who  take  the  world 
easy,  eat  white  bread  or  brown,  whichever  can  be  got  with 
least  thought  of  trouble,  and  would  rather  starve  on  a  penny 
than  work  for  a  pound.  If  left  to  himself,  he  would  have 
whistled  life  away  in  perfect  contentment;  but  his  wife  kept 
continually  dinning  in  his  ears  about  his  idleness,  his  care- 
lessness and  the  ruin  he  was  bringing  on  his  family.  Morn- 
ing, noon,  and  night,  her  tongue  was  incessantly  going,  and 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE  237 

everything  he  said  or  did  was  sure  to  prpduce  a  torrent  of 
household  eloquence.  Rip  had  but  one  way  of  replying  to 
all  lectures  of  the  kind,  and  that,  by  frequent  use,  had  grown 
into  a  habit.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  shook  his  head,  cast 
up  his  eyes,  but  said  nothing.  This,  however,  always  pro- 
voked a  fresh  volley  from  his  wife;  so  that  he  was  fain  to 
draw  off  his  forces,  and  take  to  the  outside  of  the  house — 
the  only  side  which,  in  truth,  belongs  to  a  henpecked  husband. 

Rip's  sole  domestic  adherent  was  his  dog  Wolf,  who  was 
as  much  henpecked  as  his  master;  for  Dame  Van  Winkle 
regarded  them  as  companions  in  idleness,  and  even  looked 
upon  Wolf  with  an  evil  eye,  as  the  cause  of  his  master's 
going  so  often  astray.  True  it  is,  in  all  points  of  spirit  befit- 
ting an  honourable  dog,  he  was  as  courageous  an  animal  as 
ever  scoured  the  woods ;  but  what  courage  can  withstand  the 
ever-during  and  all-besetting  terrors  of  a  woman's  tongue? 
The  moment  Wolf  entered  the  house  his  crest  fell,  his  tail 
drooped  to  the  ground,  or  curled  between  his  legs,  he  sneaked 
about  with  a  gallows  air,  casting  many  a  sidelong  glance  at 
Dame  Van  Winkle,  and  at  tke  least  flourish  of  a  broomstick 
or  ladle  he  would  fly  to  the  door  with  yelping  precipitation. 

Times  grew  worse  and  worse  with  Rip  Van  Winkle  as 
years  of  matrimony  rolled  on ;  a  tart  temper  never  mellows 
with  age,  and  a  sharp  tongue  is  the  only  edged  tool  that  grows 
keener  with  constant  use.  For  a  long  while  he  used  to  con- 
sole himself,  when  driven  from  home,  by  frequenting  a  kind 
of  perpetual  club  of  the  sages,  philosophers,  and  other  idle 
personages  of  the  village,  which  held  its  sessions  on  a  bench 
before  a  small  inn,  designated  by  a  rubicund  portrait  of  His 
Majesty,  George  the  Third.  Here  they  used  to  sit  in  the 
shade  through  a  long,  lazy  summer's  day,  talking  listlessly 
over  village  gossip,  or  telling  endless  sleepy  stories  about 
nothing.  But  it  would  have  been  worth  any  statesman's 
money  to  have  heard  the  profound  discussions  that  sometimes 
took  place,  when  by  chance  an  old  newspaper  fell  into  their 
hands  from  some  passing  traveller.  How  solemnly  they 
would  listen  to  the  contents,  as  drawled  out  by  Derrick  Van 
Bummel,  the  schoolmaster,  a  dapper,  learned  little  man,  who 
was  not  to  be  daunted  by  the  most  gigantic  word  in  the 
dictionary ;  and  how  sagely  they  would  deliberate  upon  public 
events  some  months  after  they  had  taken  place. 


238      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

The  opinions  of  this  junta  were  completely  controlled  by 
Nicholas  Vedder,  a  patriarch  of  the  village,  and  landlord  of 
the  inn,  at  the  door  of  which  he  took  his  seat  from  morning 
till  night,  just  moving  sufficiently  to  avoid  the  sun  and  keep 
in  the  shade  of  a  large  tree ;  so  that  the  neighbours  could  tell 
the  hour  by  his  movements  as  accurately  as  by  a  sun-dial. 
It  is  true  he  was  rarely  heard  to  speak,  but  smoked  his  pipe 
incessantly.  His  adherents,  however  (for  every  great  man 
has  his  adherents),  perfectly  understood  him,  and  knew  how 
to  gather  his  opinions.  When  anything  that  was  read  or 
related  displeased  him,  he  was  observed  to  smoke  his  pipe 
vehemently,  and  to  send  forth  short,  frequent,  and  angry 
puffs;  but  when  pleased,  he  would  inhale  the  smoke  slowly 
and  tranquilly,  and  emit  it  in  light  and  placid  clouds;  and 
sometimes,  taking  the  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and  letting  the 
fragrant  vapour  curl  about  his  nose,  would  gravely  nod  his 
head  in  token  of  perfect  approbation. 

From  even  this  stronghold  the  unlucky  Rip  was  at  length 
routed  by  his  termagant  wife,  who  would  suddenly  break  in 
upon  the  tranquillity  of  the  assemblage  and  call  the  members 
all  to  naught ;  nor  was  that  august  personage,  Nicholas  Ved- 
der himself,  sacred  from  the  daring  tongue  of  this  terrible 
virago,  who  charged  him  outright  with  encouraging  her  hus- 
band in  habits  of  idleness. 

Poor  Rip  was  at  last  reduced  almost  to  despair;  and  his 
only  alternative,  to  escape  from  the  labour  of  the  farm  and 
clamour  of  his  wife,  was  to  take  gun  in  hand  and  stroll  away 
into  the  woods.  Here  he  would  sometimes  seat  himself  at 
the  foot  of  a  tree,  and  share  the  contents  of  his  wallet  with 
Wolf,  with  whom  he  sympathised  as  a  fellow  sufferer  in  per- 
secution. "  Poor  Wolf,"  he  would  say,  "  thy  mistress  leads 
thee  a  dog's  life  of  it;  but  never  mind,  my  lad,  while  I  live 
thou  shalt  never  want  a  friend  to  stand  by  thee !  "  Wolf 
would  wag  his  tail,  look  wistfully  in  his  master's  face;  and 
if  dogs  can  feel  pity,  I  verily  believe  he  reciprocated  the 
sentiment  with  all  his  heart. 

In  a  long  ramble  of  the  kind  on  a  fine  autumnal  day, 
Rip  had  unconsciously  scrambled  to  one  of  the  highest  parts 
of  the  Kaatskill  Mountains.  He  was  after  his  favourite  sport 
of  squirrel-shooting,  and  the  still  solitude  had  echoed  and 
reechoed  with  the  reports  of  his  gun.    Panting  and  fatigued, 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE  ^39 

he  threw  himself,  late  in  the  afternoon,  on  a  green  knoll, 
covered  with  mountain  herbage,  that  crowned  the  brow  of  a 
precipice.  From  an  opening  between  the  trees  he  could  over- 
look all  the  lower  country  for  many  a  mile  of  rich  wood- 
land. He  saw  at  a  distance  the  lordly  Hudson,  far,  far  below 
him,  moving  on  his  silent  but  majestic  course,  with  the  re- 
flection of  a  purple  cloud,  or  the  sail  of  a  lagging  bark,  here 
and  there  sleeping  on  its  glassy  bottom,  and  at  last  losing 
itself  in  the  blue  highlands. 

On  4:he  other  side  he  looked  down  into  a  deep  mountain 
glen,  wild,  lonely,  and  shagged,  the  bottom  filled  with  frag- 
ments from  the  impending  cliffs,  and  scarcely  lighted  by  the 
reflected  rays  of  the  setting  sun.  For  some  time  Rip  lay 
musing  on  this  scene ;  evening  was  gradually  advancing ;  the 
mountains  began  to  throw  their  long,  blue  shadows  over  the 
valleys;  he  saw  that  it  would  be  dark  long  before  he  could 
reach  the  village,  and  he  heaved  a  heavy  sigh  when  he 
thought  of  encountering  the  terrors  of  Dame  Van  Winkle. 

As  he  was  about  to  descend,  he  heard  a  voice  from  a  dis- 
tance, hallooing :  "  Rip  Van  Winkle  !  Rip  Van  Winkle  !  "  He 
looked  round,  but  could  see  nothing  but  a  crow  winging  its 
solitary  flight  across  the  mountain.  He  thought  his  fancy 
must  have  deceived  him,  and  turned  again  to  descend,  when 
he  heard  the  same  cry  ring  through  the  still  evening  air: 
"Rip  Van  Winkle !  Rip  Van  Winkle !  " — at  the  same  time 
Wolf  bristled  up  his  back,  and  giving  a  low  growl,  skulked 
to  his  master's  side,  looking  fearfully  down  into  the  glen. 
Rip  now  felt  a  vague  apprehension  stealing  over  him;  he 
looked  anxiously  in  the  same  direction,  and  perceived  a 
strange  figure  slowly  toiling  up  the  rocks,  and  bending  under 
the  weight  of  something  he  carried  on  his  back.  He  was  sur- 
prised to  see  any  human  being  in  this  lonely  and  unfrequented 
place ;  but  supposing  it  to  be  some  one  of  the  neighbourhood 
in  need  of  his  assistance,  he  hastened  down  to  yield  it. 

On  nearer  approach  he  was  still  more  surprised  at  the 
singularity  of  the  stranger's  appearance.  He  was  a  short, 
square-built  old  fellow,  with  thick  bushy  hair,  and  a  griz- 
zled beard.  His  dress  was  of  the  antique  Dutch  fashion — a 
cloth  jerkin  strapped  round  the  waist — several  pair  of 
breeches,  the  outer  one  of  ample  volume,  decorated  with  rows 
of  buttons  down  the  sides,  and  bunches  at  the  knees.     He 


240      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

bore  on  his  shoulder  a  stout  keg  that  seemed  full  of  liquor, 
and  made  signs  for  Rip  to  approach  and  assist  him  with 
the  load.  Though  rather  shy  and  distrustful  of  this  new 
acquaintance,  Rip  complied  with  his  usual  alacrity;  and  mu- 
tually relieving  one  another,  they  clambered  up  a  narrow 
gully,  apparently  the  dry  bed  of  a  mountain  torrent.  As  they 
ascended,  Rip  every  now  and  then  heard  long,  rolling  peals, 
like  distant  thunder,  that  seemed  to  issue  out  of  a  deep  ravine, 
or  rather  cleft,  between  lofty  rocks,  towards  which  their 
rugged  path  conducted.  He  paused  for  an  instant,  but  sup- 
posing it  to  be  the  muttering  of  one  of  those  transient  thun- 
der-showers which  often  take  place  in  mountain  heights,  he 
proceeded.  Passing  through  the  ravine,  they  came  to  a  hol- 
low, like  a  small  amphitheatre,  surrounded  by  perpendicular 
precipices,  over  the  brinks  of  which  impending  trees  shot 
their  branches,  so  that  you  only  caught  glimpses  of  the  azure 
sky  and  the  bright  evening  cloud.  During  the  whole  time 
Rip  and  his  companion  had  laboured  on  in  silence ;  for  though 
the  former  marvelled  greatly  what  could  be  the  object  of  car- 
rying a  keg  of  liquor  up  this  wild  mountain,  yet  there  was 
something  strange  and  incomprehensible  about  the  unknown, 
that  inspired  awe  and  checked  familiarity. 

On  entering  the  amphitheatre,  new  objects  of  wonder  pre- 
sented themselves.  On  a  level  spot  in  the  centre  was  a 
company  of  odd-looking  personages  playing  at  ninepins. 
They  were  dressed  in  a  quaint,  outlandish  fashion ;  some  wore 
short  doublets,  others  jerkins,  with  long  knives  in  their  belts, 
and  most  of  them  had  enormous  breeches  of  similar  style  with 
that  of  the  guide's.  Their  visages,  too,  were  peculiar:  one 
had  a  large  beard,  broad  face,  and  small,  piggish  eyes;  the 
face  of  another  seemed  to  consist  entirely  of  nose,  and  was 
surmounted  by  a  white  sugar-loaf  hat,  set  off  with  a  little 
red  cock's  tail.  They  all  had  beards  of  various  shapes  and 
colours.  There  was  one  who  seemed  to  be  the  commander. 
He  was  a  stout  old  gentleman,  with  a  weather-beaten  coun- 
tenance; he  wore  a  laced  doublet,  broad  belt  and  hanger, 
high-crowned  hat  and  feather,  red  stockings,  and  high-heeled 
shoes,  with  roses  in  them.  The  whole  group  reminded  Rip  of 
the  figures  in  an  old  Flemish  painting,  in  the  parlour  of 
Dominie  Van  Shaick,  the  village  parson,  and  which  had  been 
brought  over  from  Holland  at  the  time  of  the  settlement. 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE  «4X 

What  seemed  particularly  odd  to  Rip  was,  that,  though 
these  folks  were  evidently  amusing  themselves,  yet  they 
maintained  the  gravest  faces,  the  most  mysterious  silence, 
and  were,  withal,  the  most  melancholy  party  of  pleasure  he 
had  ever  witnessed.  Nothing  interrupted  the  stillness  of  the 
scene  but  the  noise  of  the  balls,  which,  whenever  they  were 
rolled,  echoed  along  the  mountains  like  rumbling  peals  of 
thunder. 

As  Rip  and  his  companion  approached  them,  they  sud- 
denly desisted  from  their  play,  and  stared  at  him  with  such 
fixed,  statuelike  gaze,  and  such  strange,  uncouth,  lack-lustre 
countenances,  that  his  heart  turned  within  him,  and  his  knees 
smote  together.  His  companion  now  emptied  the  contents  of 
the  keg  into  large  flagons,  and  made  signs  to  him  to  wait  upon 
the  company.  He  obeyed  with  fear  and  trembling;  they 
quaffed  the  liquor  in  profound  silence,  and  then  returned  to 
their  game. 

By  degrees  Rip's  awe  and  apprehension  subsided.  He 
even  ventured,  when  no  eye  was  fixed  upon  him,  to  taste  the 
beverage,  which  he  found  had  much  of  the  flavour  of  excel- 
lent hollands.  He  was  naturally  a  thirsty  soul,  and  was  soon 
tempted  to  repeat  the  draught.  One  taste  provoked  another ; 
and  he'  reiterated  his  visits  to  the  flagon  so  often  that  at 
length  his  senses  were  overpowered,  his  eyes  swam  in  his 
head,  his  head  gradually  declined,  and  he  fell  into  a  deep 
sleep. 

On  waking,  he  found  himself  on  the  green  knoll  whence 
he  had  first  seen  the  old  man  of  the  glen.  He  rubbed  his  eyes 
— it  was  a  bright,  sunny  morning.  The  birds  were  hopping 
and  twittering  among  the  bushes,  and  the  eagle  was  wheeling 
aloft,  and  breasting  the  pure  mountain  breeze.  "  Surely," 
thought  Rip,  "  I  have  not  slept  here  all  night."  He  recalled 
the  occurrences  before  he  fell  asleep.  The  strange  man  with 
a  keg  of  liquor — the  mountain  ravine — the  wild  retreat  among 
the  rocks — the  woebegone  party  at  ninepins — the  flagon — 
"  Oh  !  that  flagon  !  that  wicked  flagon  !  "  thought  Rip — "  what 
excuse  shall  I  make  to  Dame  Van  Winkle  ?  " 

He  looked  round  for  his  gun,  but  in  place  of  the  clean, 
well-oiled  fowling-piece,  he  found  an  old  firelock  lying  by 
him,  the  barrel  encrusted  with  rust,  the  lock  falling  off,  and 
the  stock* worm-eaten.    He  now  suspected  that  the  grave  rois- 


242      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

terers  of  the  mountain  had  put  a  trick  upon  him,  and,  having 
dosed  him  with  liquor,  had  robbed  him  of  his  gun.  Wolf, 
too,  had  disappeared,  but  he  might  have  strayed  away  after 
a  squirrel  or  partridge.  He  whistled  after  him,  and  shouted 
his  name,  but  all  in  vain;  the  echoes  repeated  his  whistle 
and  shout,  but  no  dog  was  to  be  seen. 

He  determined  to  revisit  the  scene  of  the  last  evening's 
gambol,  and  if  he  met  with  any  of  the  party  to  demand  his 
dog  and  gun.  As  he  rose  to  walk  he  found  himself  stiff  in 
the  joints,  and  wanting  in  his  usual  activity.  "  These  moun- 
tain beds  do  not  agree  with  me,"  thought  Rip,  "  and  if  this 
frolic  should  lay  me  up  with  a  fit  of  the  rheumatism,  I  shall 
have  a  blessed  time  with  Dame  Van  Winkle !  "  With  some 
difficulty  he  got  down  into  the  glen;  he  found  the  gully  up 
which  he  and  his  companion  had  ascended  the  preceding 
evening;  but  to  his  astonishment  a  mountain  stream  was  now 
foaming  down  it,  leaping  from  rock  to  rock,  and  filling  the 
glen  with  babbling  murmurs.  He,  however,  made  shift  to 
scramble  up  its  sides,  working  his  toilsome  way  through 
thickets  of  birch,  sassafras,  and  witch-hazel,  and  sometimes 
tripped  up  or  entangled  by  the  wild  grape-vines  that  twisted 
their  coils  or  tendrils  from  tree  to  tree,  and  spread  a  kind  of 
network  in  his  path. 

At  length  he  reached  to  where  the  ravine  had  opened 
through  the  cliffs  to  the  amphitheatre;  but  no  traces  of  such 
opening  remained.  The  rocks  presented  a  high,  impenetrable 
wall,  over  which  the  torrent  came  tumbling  in  a  sheet  of 
feathery  foam,  and  fell  into  a  broad  deep  basin,  black  from 
the  shadows  of  the  surrounding  forest.  Here,  then,  poor  Rip 
was  brought  to  a  stand.  He  again  called  and  whistled  after 
his  dog;  he  was  only  answered  by  the  cawing  of  a  flock 
of  idle  crows,  sporting  high  in  air  about  a  dry  tree  that  over- 
hung a  sunny  precipice;  and  who,  secure  in  their  elevation, 
seemed  to  look  down  and  scoff  at  the  poor  man's  perplexities. 
What  was  to  be  done?  The  morning  was  passing  away,  and 
Rip  felt  famished  for  want  of  his  breakfast.  He  grieved  to 
give  up  his  dog  and  gun;  he  dreaded  to  meet  his  wife;  but 
it  would  not  do  to  starve  among  the  mountains.  He  shook 
his  head,  shouldered  the  rusty  firelock,  and,  with  a  heart  full 
of  trouble  and  anxiety,  turned  his  steps  homewards. 

As  he  approached  the  village  he  met  a  number  of  people, 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE  243 

but  none  whom  he  knew,  which  somewhat  surprised  him,  for 
he  had  thought  himself  acquainted  with  every  one  in  the 
country  round.  Their  dress,  too,  was  of  a  different  fashion 
from  that  to  which  he  was  accustomed.  They  all  stared  at 
him  with  equal  marks  of  surprise,  and  whenever  they  cast 
their  eyes  upon  him,  invariably  stroked  their  chins.  The 
constant  recurrence  of  this  gesture  induced  Rip,  involuntarily, 
to  do  the  same,  when,  to  his  astonishment,  he  found  his  beard 
had  grown  a  foot  long ! 

He  had  now  entered  the  skirts  of  the  village.  A  troop 
of  strange  children  ran  at  his  heels,  hooting  after  him,  and 
pointing  at  his  gray  beard.  The  dogs,  too,  not  one  of  which 
he  recognised  for  an  old  acquaintance,  barked  at  him  as  he 
passed.  The  very  village  was  altered ;  it  was  larger  and  more 
populous.  There  were  rows  of  houses  which  he  had  never 
seen  before,  and  those  which  had  been  his  familiar  haunts  had 
disappeared.  Strange  names  were  over  the  doors — strange 
faces  at  the  windows — everything  was  strange.  His  mind 
now  misgave  him;  he  began  to  doubt  whether  both  he  and 
the  world  around  him  were  not  bewitched.  Surely  this  was 
his  native  village,  which  he  had  left  but  the  day  before.  There 
stood  the  Kaatskill  Mountains — there  ran  the  silver  Hudson 
at  a  distance — there  was  every  hill  and  dale  precisely  as 
it  had  always  been.  Rip  was  sorely  perplexed.  "  That 
flagon  last  night,"  thought  he,  "  has  addled  my  poor  head 
sadly !  " 

It  was  with  some  difficulty  that  he  found  the  way  to  his 
own  house,  which  he  approached  with  silent  awe,  expecting 
every  moment  to  hear  the  shrill  voice  of  Dame  Van  Winkle. 
He  found  the  house  gone  to  decay — the  roof  fallen  in,  the 
windows  shattered,  and  the  doors  off  the  hinges.  A  half- 
starved  dog  that  looked  like  Wolf  was  skulking  about  it. 
Rip  called  him  by  name,  but  the  cur  snarled,  showed  his  teeth, 
and  passed  on.  This  was  an  unkind  cut  indeed.  "  My  very 
dog,"  sighed  poor  Rip,  "  has  forgotten  me ! " 

He  entered  the  house,  which,  to  tell  the  truth,  Dame  Van 
Winkle  had  always  kept  in  neat  order.  It  was  empty,  for- 
lorn, and  apparently  abandoned.  This  desolateness  over- 
came all  his  connubial  fears — he  called  loudly  for  his  wife 
and  children — the  lonely  chambers  rang  for  a  moment  with 
his  voice,  and  then  all  again  was  silence. 


244     THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

He  now  hurried  forth,  and  hastened  to  his  old  resort,  the 
village  inn — but  it,  too,  was  gone.  A  large,  rickety  wooden 
building  stood  in  its  place,  with  great  gaping  windows,  some 
of  them  broken  and  mended  with  old  hats  and  petticoats,  and 
over  the  door  was  painted:  The  Union  Hotel,  by  Jonathan 
Doolittle.  Instead  of  the  great  tree  that  used  to  shelter 
the  quiet  little  Dutch  inn  of  yore,  there  now  was  reared  a  tall 
naked  pole,  with  something  on  the  top  that  looked  like  a  red 
nightcap,  and  from  it  was  fluttering  a  flag,  on  which  was  a 
singular  assemblage  of  stars  and  stripes; — all  this  was 
strange  and  incomprehensible.  He  recognised  on  the  sign, 
however,  the  ruby  face  of  King  George,  under  which  he  had 
smoked  so  many  a  peaceful  pipe;  but  even  this  was  singu- 
larly metamorphosed.  The  red  coat  was  changed  for  one 
of  blue  and  buff,  a  sword  was  held  in  the  hand  instead  of 
a  sceptre,  the  head  was  decorated  with  a  cocked  hat,  and 
underneath  was  painted  in  large  characters :  General  Wash- 
ington. 

There  was,  as  usual,  a  crowd  of  folk  about  the  door,  but 
none  that  Rip  recollected.  The  very  character  of  the  people 
seemed  changed.  There  was  a  busy,  bustling,  disputatious 
tone  about  it,  instead  of  the  accustomed  phlegm  and  drowsy 
tranquillity.  He  looked  in  vain  for  the  sage  Nicholas  Ved- 
der,  with  his  broad  face,  double  chin,  and  fair  long  pipe, 
uttering  clouds  of  tobacco  smoke  instead  of  idle  speeches ;  or 
Van  Bummel,  the  schoolmaster,  doling  forth  the  contents  of 
an  ancient  newspaper.  In  place  of  these,  a  lean,  bilious-look- 
ing fellow,  with  his  pockets  full  of  handbills,  was  haranguing 
vehemently  about  rights  of  citizens — elections — members  of 
Congress — liberty — Bunker  Hill — heroes  of  '76 — and  other 
words,  which  were  a  perfect  Babylonish  jargon  to  the  bewil- 
dered Van  Winkle. 

The  appearance  of  Rip,  with  his  long  grizzled  beard,  his 
rusty  fowHng-piece,  his  uncouth  dress,  and  an  army  of  women 
and  children  at  his  heels,  soon  attracted  the  attention  of  the 
tavern  politicians.  They  crowded  round  him,  eyeing  him 
from  head  to  foot  with  great  curiosity.  The  orator  bustled 
up  to  him,  and,  drawing  him  partly  aside,  inquired  "  on 
which  side  he  voted."  Rip  stared  in  vacant  stupidity.  An- 
other short  -but  busy  little  fellow  pulled  him  by  the  arm, 
and,  rising  on  tiptoe,  inquired  in  his  ear  "  whether  he  was 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE  245 

Federal  or  Democrat."  Rip  was  equally  at  a  loss  to  com- 
prehend the  question;  when  a  knowing,  self-important  old 
gentleman,  in  a  sharp  cocked  hat,  made  his  way  through  the 
crowd,  putting  them  to  the  right  and  left  with  his  elbows  as 
he  passed,  and  planting  himself  before  Van  Winkle,  with  one 
arm  akimbo,  the  other  resting  on  his  cane,  his  keen  eyes  and 
sharp  hat  penetrating,  as  it  were,  into  his  very  soul,  demanded 
in  an  austere  tone  "  what  brought  him  to  the  election  with 
a  gun  on  his  shoulder  and  a  mob  at  his  heels;  and  whether 
he  meant  to  breed  a  riot  in  the  village." — "  Alas !  gentle- 
men," cried  Rip,  somewhat  dismayed,  "  I  am  a  poor,  quiet 
man,  a  native  of  the  place,  and  a  loyal  subject  of  the  King, 
God  bless  him  !  " 

Here  a  general  shout  burst  from  the  bystanders — "  A 
Tory !  a  Tory !  a  spy !  a  refugee !  hustle  him !  away  with 
him !  "  It  was  with  great  difficulty  that  the  self-important 
man  in  the  cocked  hat  restored  order ;  and,  having  assumed  a 
tenfold  austerity  of  brow,  demanded  again  of  the  unknown 
culprit  what  he  came  there  for  and  whom  he  was  seeking. 
The  poor  man  humbly  assured  him  that  he  meant  no  harm, 
but  merely  came  there  in  search  of  some  of  his  neighbours, 
who  used  to  keep  about  the  tavern. 

"  Well — who  are   they  ? — name   them." 

Rip  bethought  himself  a  moment,  and  inquired :  "  Where's 
Nicholas  Vedder?" 

There  was  a  silence  for  a  Httle  while,  when  an  old  man 
replied,  in  a  thin,  piping  voice :  "  Nicholas  Vedder !  Why, 
he  is  dead  and  gone  these  eighteen  years !  There  was  a 
wooden  tombstone  in  the  churchyard  that  used  to  tell  all 
about  him,  but  that's  rotten  and  gone  too." 

"  Where's  Brom  Dutcher?  " 

"  Oh,  he  went  off  to  the  army  in  the  beginning  of  the 
war ;  some  say  he  was  killed  at  the  storming  of  Stony  Point 
— others  say  he  was  drowned  in  a  squall  at  the  foot  of  An- 
thony's Nose.     I  don't  know — he  never  came  back  again." 

"  Where's  Van  Bummel,  the  schoolmaster  ?  " 

"  He  went  off  to  the  wars,  too,  was  a  great  militia  gen- 
eral, and  is  now  in  Congress." 

Rip's  heart  died  away  at  hearing  of  these  sad  changes  in 
his  home  and  friends,  and  finding  himself  thus  alone  in  the 
world.    Every  answer  puzzled  him,  too,  by  treating  of  such 


246      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

enormous  lapses  of  time,  and  of  matters  which  he  could  not 
understand:  war — Congress — Stony  Point — he  had  no  cour- 
age to  ask  after  any  more  friends,  but  cried  out  in  despair: 
"  Does  nobody  here  know  Rip  Van  Winkle  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Rip  Van  Winkle !  "  exclaimed  two  or  three,  "  oh, 
to  be  sure !  that's  Rip  Van  Winkle  yonder,  leaning  against 
the  tree." 

Rip  looked,  and  beheld  a  precise  counterpart  of  himself, 
as  he  went  up  the  mountain ;  apparently  as  lazy,  and  certainly 
as  ragged.  The  poor  fellow  was  now  completely  confounded. 
He  doubted  his  own  identity,  and  whether  he  was  himself 
or  another  man.  In  the  midst  of  his  bewilderment,  the  man 
in  the  cocked  hat  demanded  who  he  was,  and  what  was  his 
name. 

"  God  knows,"  exclaimed  he,  at  his  wit's  end ;  "  I'm  not 
myself — I'm  somebody  else — that's  me  yonder — no — that's 
somebody  else  got  into  my  shoes — I  was  myself  last  night, 
but  I  fell  asleep  on  the  mountain,  and  they've  changed  my 
gun,  and  everything's  changed,  and  I'm  changed,  and  I  can't 
tell  what's  my  name,  or  who  I  am !  " 

The  bystanders  began  now  to  look  at  each  other,  nod, 
wink  significantly,  and  tap  their  fingers  against  their  fore- 
heads. There  was  a  whisper,  also,  about  securing  the  gun, 
and  keeping  the  old  fellow  from  doing  mischief,  at  the  very 
suggestion  of  which  the  self-important  man  in  the  cocked 
hat  retired  with  some  precipitation.  At  this  critical  moment 
a  fresh,  comely  woman  pressed  through  the  throng  to  get  a 
peep  at  the  gray-bearded  man.  She  had  a  chubby  child  in 
her  ams,  which,  frightened  at  his  looks,  began  to  cry. 
"  Hush,  Rip,"  cried  she,  "  hush,  you  little  fool ;  the  old  man 
won't  hurt  you."  The  name  of  the  child,  the  air  of  the 
mother,  the  tone  of  her  voice,  all  awakened  a  train  of  recol- 
lections in  his  mind.  "  What  is  your  name,  my  good  wom- 
an?" asked  he. 

"  Judith  Gardenier." 

"  And  your  father's  name  ?  " 

"  Ah,  poor  man,  Rip  Van  Winkle  was  his  name,  but  it's 
twenty  years  since  he  went  away  from  home  with  his  gun, 
and  never  has  been  heard  of  since — his  dog  came  home  with- 
out him ;  but  whether  he  shot  himself,  or  was  carried  away 
by  the  Indians,  nobody  can  tell.    I  was  then  but  a  little  girl." 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE  447 

Rip  had  but  one  question  more  to  ask ;  but  he  put  it  with 
a  faltering  voice: 

"  Where's  your  mother?" 

"  Oh,  she,  too,  had  died  but  a  short  time  since ;  she  broke 
a  blood-vessel  in  a  fit  of  passion  at  a  New  England  peddler." 

There  was  a  drop  of  comfort,  at  least,  in  this  intelligence. 
The  honest  man  could  contain  himself  no  longer.  He  caught 
his  daughter  and  her  child  in  his  arms.  "  I  am  your 
father !  "  cried  he — "young  Rip  Van  Winkle  once — old  Rip 
Van  Wikk  now ! — Does  nobody  know  poor  Rip  Van  Win- 
kle?" 

All  stood  amazed,  until  an  old  woman,  tottering  out  from 
among  the  crowd,  put  her  hand  to  her  brow,  and  peering 
under  it  in  his  face  for  a  moment,  exclaimed :  "  Sure  enough  ! 
It  is  Rip  Van  Winkle — it  is  himself !  Welcome  home  again, 
old  neighbour.  Why,  where  have  you  been  these  twenty  long 
years  ?  " 

Rip's  story  was  soon  told,  for  the  whole  twenty  years  had 
been  to  him  as  but  one  night.  The  neighbours  stared  when 
they  heard  it ;  some  were  seen  to  wink  at  each  other,  and  put 
their  tongues  in  their  cheeks;  and  the  self-important  man  in 
the  cocked  hat,  who,  when  the  alarm  was  over,  had  returned 
to  the  field,  screwed  down  the  corners  of  his  mouth,  and  shook 
his  head — upon  which  there  was  a  general  shaking  of  the 
head  throughout  the  assemblage. 

It  was  determined,  however,  to  take  the  opinion  of  old 
Peter  Vanderdonk,  who  was  seen  slowly  advancing  up  the 
road.  He  was  a  descendant  of  the  historian  of  that  name, 
who  wrote  one  of  the  earliest  accounts  of  the  province.  Peter 
was  the  most  ancient  inhabitant  of  the  village,  and  well 
versed  in  all  the  wonderful  events  and  traditions  of  the 
neighbourhood.  He  recollected  Rip  at  once,  and  corroborated 
his  story  in  the  most  satisfactory  manner.  He  assured  the 
company  that  it  was  a  fact,  handed  down  from  his  ancestor 
the  historian,  that  the  Kaatskill  Mountains  had  always  been 
haunted  by  strange  beings.  That  it  was  affirmed  that  the 
great  Hendrick  Hudson,  the  first  discoverer  of  the  river  and 
country,  kept  a  kind  of  vigil  there  every  twenty  years,  with 
his  crew  of  the  Half  Moon ;  being  permitted  in  this  way  to 
revisit  the  scenes  of  his  enterprise,  and  keep  a  guardian  eye 
Mpon  the  river  and  the  great  city  called  By  his  name.    That 


^4^      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

his  father  had  once  seen  them  in  their  old  Dutch  dresses 
playing  at  ninepins  in  a  hollow  of  the  mountain ;  and  that  he 
himself  had  heard,  one  summer  afternoon,  the  sound  of  their 
balls,  like  distant  peals  of  thunder. 

To  make  a  long  story  short,  the  company  broke  up  and 
returned  to  the  more  important  concerns  of  the  election. 
Rip's  daughter  took  him  home  to  live  with  her;  she  had  a 
snug,  well-furnished  house,  and  a  stout,  cheery  farmer  for  a 
husband,  whom  Rip  recollected  for  one  of  the  urchins  that 
used  to  climb  upon  his  back.  As  to  Rip's  son  and  heir,  who 
was  the  ditto  of  himself,  seen  leaning  against  the  tree,  he  was 
employed  to  work  on  the  farm ;  but  evinced  an  hereditary  dis- 
position to  attend  to  anything  else  but  his  business. 

Rip  now  resumed  his  old  walks  and  habits ;  he  soon  found 
many  of  his  former  cronies,  though  all  rather  the  worse  for 
the  wear  and  tear  of  time;  and  preferred  making  friends 
among  the  rising  generation,  with  whom  he  soon  grew  into 
great   favour. 

Having  nothing  to  do  at  home,  and  being  arrived  at  that 
happy  age  when  a  man  can  be  idle  with  impunity,  he  took  his 
place  once  more  on  the  bench  at  the  inn  door,  and  was  rev- 
erenced as  one  of  the  patriarchs  of  the  village,  and  a  chron- 
icle of  the  old  times  "  before  the  war."  It  was  some  time 
before  he  could  get  into  the  regular  track  of  gossip,  or  could 
be  made  to  comprehend  the  strange  events  that  had  taken 
place  during  his  torpor:  how  that  there  had  been  a  Revolu- 
tionary war — that  the  country  had  thrown  off  the  yoke  of 
old  England — and  that,  instead  of  being  a  subject  of  His 
Majesty,  George  HI.,  he  was  now  a  free  citizen  of  the  United 
States.  Rip,  in  fact,  was  no  politician ;  the  changes  of  states 
and  empires  made  but  little  impression  on  him ;  but  there  was 
one  species  of  despotism  under  which  he  had  long  groaned, 
and  that  was — petticoat  government.  Happily  that  was  at 
an  end ;  he  had  got  his  neck  out  of  the  yoke  of  matrimony, 
and  could  go  in  and  out  whenever  he  pleased,  without  dread- 
ing the  tyranny  of  Dame  Van  Winkle.  Whenever  her  name 
was  mentioned,  however,  he  shook  his  head,  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  and  cast  up  his  eyes;  which  might  pass  either  for 
an  expression  of  resignation  to  his  fate  or  joy  at  his  deliv- 
erance. 

He  used  to  tell  his  story  to  every  stranger  that  arrived 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE  ^49 

at  Mr.  Doolittle's  hotel.  He  was  observed,  at  first,  to  vary 
on  some  points  every  time  he  told  it,  which  was,  doubtless, 
owing  to  his  having  so  recently  awakened.  It  at  last  settled 
down  precisely  to  the  tale  I  have  related,  and  not  a  man, 
woman,  or  child  in  the  neighbourhood  but  knew  it  by  heart. 
Some  always  pretended  to  doubt  the  reality  of  it,  and  insisted 
that  Rip  had  been  out  of  his  head,  and  that  this  was  one  point 
on  which  he  always  remained  flighty.  The  old  Dutch  inhab- 
itants, however,  almost  universally  gave  it  full  credit.  Even 
to  this  day  they  never  hear  a  thunder-storm  of  a  summer 
afternoon  about  the  Kaatskill,  but  they  say  Hendrick  Hudson 
and  his  crew  are  at  their  game  of  ninepins ;  and  it  is  a  com- 
mon wish  of  all  henpecked  husbands  in  the  neighbourhood, 
when  life  hangs  heavy  on  their  hands,  that  they  might  have  a 
quieting  draught  out  of  Rip  Van  Winkle's  flagon. 

NOTE 

The  foregoing  tale,  one  would  suspect,  had  been  suggested 
to  Mr.  Knickerbocker  by  a  little  German  superstition  about 
the  Emperor  Frederick  der  Rothbart,  and  the  Kypphauser 
mountain:  the  subjoined  note,  however,  which  he  had  ap- 
pended to  the  tale,  shows  that  it  is  an  absolute  fact,  narrated 
with  his  usual  fidelity. 

"  The  story  of  Rip  Van  Winkle  may  seem  incredible  to 
many,  but  nevertheless  I  give  it  my  full  belief,  for  I  know 
the  vicinity  of  our  old  Dutch  settlements  to  have  been  very 
subject  to  marvellous  events  and  appearances.  Indeed,  I 
have  heard  many  stranger  stories  than  this,  in  the  villages 
along  the  Hudson;  all  of  which  were  too  well  authenticated 
to  admit  of  a  doubt.  I  have  even  talked  with  Rip  Van 
Winkle  myself,  who,  when  last  I  saw  him,  was  a  very  ven- 
erable old  man,  and  so  perfectly  rational  and  consistent  on 
every  other  point,  that  I  think  no  conscientious  person  could 
refuse  to  take  this  into  the  bargain;  nay,  I  have  seen  a  cer- 
tificate on  the  subject  taken  before  a  country  justice  and 
signed  with  a  cross,  in  the  justice's  own  handwriting.  The 
story,  therefore,  is  beyond  the  possibility  of  a  doubt. 

"  D.  K." 


17 


iSO  THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 


POSTSCRIPT 

The  following  are  travelling-notes  from  a  memorandum 
book  of  Mr.  Knickerbocker: 

The  Kaatsberg,  or  Catskill  Mountains,  have  always  been 
a  region  full  of  fable.  The  Indians  considered  them  the 
abode  of  spirits,  who  influenced  the  weather,  spreading  sun- 
shine or  clouds  over  the  landscape,  and  sending  good  or  bad 
hunting  seasons.  They  were  ruled  by  an  old  squaw  spirit, 
said  to  be  their  mother.  She  dwelt  on  the  highest  peak  of  the 
Catskills,  and  had  charge  of  the  doors  of  day  and  night  to 
open  and  shut  them  at  the  proper  hour.  She  hung  up  the  new 
moon  in  the  skies,  and  cut  up  the  old  ones  into  stars.  In 
times  of  drought,  if  properly  propitiated,  she  would  spin 
light  summer  clouds  out  of  cobwebs  and  morning  dew,  and 
send  them  off  from  the  crest  of  the  mountain,  flake  after 
flake,  like  flakes  of  carded  cotton,  to  float  in  the  air;  until, 
dissolved  by  the  heat  of  the  sun,  they  would  fall  in  gentle 
showers,  causing  the  grass  to  spring,  the  fruits  to  ripen,  and 
the  corn  to  grow  an  inch  an  hour.  If  displeased,  however, 
she  would  brew  up  clouds  black  as  ink,  sitting  in  the  midst 
of  them  like  a  bottle-bellied  spider  in  the  midst  of  its  web; 
and  when  these  clouds  broke,  woe  betide  the  valleys  ! 

In  old  times,  say  the  Indian  traditions,  there  was  a  kind  of 
Manitou  or  Spirit,  who  kept  about  the  wildest  recesses  of  the 
Catskill  Mountains  and  took  a  mischievous  pleasure  in  wreak- 
ing all  kinds  of  evils  and  vexations  upon  the  red  men.  Some- 
times he  would  assume  the  form  of  a  bear,  a  panther,  or  a 
deer,  lead  the  bewildered  hunter  a  weary  chase  through  tan- 
gled forests  and  among  ragged  rocks;  and  then  spring  off 
with  a  loud  ho !  ho !  leaving  him  aghast  on  the  brink  of  a 
beetling  precipice  or  raging  torrent. 

The  favourite  abode  of  this  Manitou  is  still  shown.  It 
is  a  great  rock  or  cliff  on  the  loneliest  part  of  the  mountains, 
and,  from  the  flowering  vines  which  clamber  about  it,  and 
the  wild  flowers  which  abound  in  its  neighbourhood,  is 
known  by  the  name  of  the  Garden  Rock.  Near  the  foot  of  it 
is  a  small  lake,  the  haunt  of  the  solitary  bittern,  with  water- 
snakes  basking  in  the  sun  on  the  leaves  of  the  pond-lilies 
l/hich  lie  on  the  surface.    This  place  was  held  in  great  awe 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE  2$% 

by  the  Indians,  insomuch  that  the  lUolciest  hunter  would  not 
pursue  his  game  within  its  precincts.  Once  upon  a  time, 
however,  a  hunter,  who  had  lost  his  way,  penetrated  to  the 
Garden  Rock,  where  he  beheld  a  number  of  gourds  placed 
in  the  crotches  of  trees.  One  of  these  he  seized  and  made 
off  with  it,  but  in  the  hurry  of  his  retreat  he  let  it  fall  among 
the  rocks,  when  a  great  stream  gushed  forth,  which  washed 
him  away  and  swept  him  down  precipices,  where  he  was 
dashed  to>pieces,  and  the  stream  made  its  way  to  the  Hud- 
son, and  continues  to  flow  to  the  present  day ;  being  the  iden- 
tical stream  known  by  the  name  of  the  Kaaterskill. 


A   LIST    OF   REPRESENTATIVE   TALES   AND 
SHORT  STORIES 


1820  TO  1830: 

Smarra,  Charles  Nodier  (1821). 

Die    Flucht   nach   Agypten    and    Der    Mann   von    Fiinfzig 

Jahren,     Goethe,     Wilhelm    Meister's    Wanderjahre 

(1821-1829). 
Trilby,  Charles  Nodier  (1822). 
Die  Gemalde,  J.  L.  Tieck  (1822). 
Die  Verlobung,  J.  L.  Tieck   (1823). 
Wandering   Willie's   Tale,    Sir   Walter    Scott,    Redgauntlet 

(1824). 

Tales  of  a  Traveler,  Washington  Irving  (1824). 

Sayings  and  Doings,  Theodore  Hook   (i 824-1 825-1 828). 

The  Superannuated  Man,  Charles  Lamb  (1825). 

O'Hara  Tales,  John  and  Michael  Banim  (1825-42).     . 

Die  Novelle,  Goethe  (1826). 

My  Aunt  Margaret's  Mirror,  Sir  Walter  Scott  (1828). 

The  Tapestried  Chamber,  Sir  Walter  Scott  (1828). 

Mateo  Falcone,  Prosper  Merimee   (1829). 

Vision  de  Charles  XL,  Prosper  Merimee  (1829). 

L'Enlevement  de  la  Redoute,  Prosper  Merimee   (1829). 

Tamango,  Prosper  Merimee  (1829). 

Federigo,  Prosper  Merimee  (1829). 

La  Perle  de  Tolede,  Prosper  Merimee  (1829). 

253 


WANDERING   WILLIE'S    TALE 


WANDERING  WILLIE'S  TALE 

Wandering  Willie's  Tale,  by  Sir  Walter  Scott 
(1771-1832),  first  published  in  Redgauntlet  in  1824,  was 
the  first  short  story  of  importance  that  the  famous 
romancer  wrote.  The  Tales  of  a  Grandfather  (1828- 
1829-1830)  are  not  properly  short  stories,  but  history 
popularly  presented.  In  1828  there  appeared  in  The 
Keepsake  three  short  stories  by  Scott :  My  Aunt  Mar- 
garet's Mirror,  The  Tapestried  Chamber,  and  Death  of 
the  Laird's  Jock.  These  three,  together  with  Wandering 
Willie's  Tale,  are  Scott's  only  important  contributions  to 
fiction  in  short  story  form. 

Wandering  Willie's  Tale  is  told  by  one  of  the  charac- 
ters in  Scott's  romance,  Redgauntlet,  but  it  has  no  other 
connection  with  the  longer  work  of  fiction  in  which  it  is 
embedded.  Perhaps  its  insertion  where  it  so  clearly  of- 
fends against  the  unity  of  the  narrative  is  a  proof  of  Sir 
Walter's  own  high  regard  for  its  value.  One  critic  calls  it 
"  the  finest  short  story  in  the  language  " ;  this  is  perhaps 
excessive  praise,  but  as  a  tale  of  the  weird  it  is  scarcely 
surpassed  either  by  Theophile  Gautier's  The  Dead  Leman 
(1836)  or  by  Robert  Louis  Stevenson's  Thrawn  Janet 
(1881).  In  brief,  it  stands  at  or  very  near  the  head  of 
its  class.  Like  The  Dead  Leman,  Wandering  Willie's 
Tale  is  a  dream-fantasy  from  beginning  to  end ;  **  the 
wildest  and  most  rueful  of  dreams,"  Lockhart  calls  it. 
For  an  interesting  treatment  of  the  "  ghost "  story,  the 
conte  cruel,  the  reader  is  referred  to  Scott's  Apology  for 
Tales  of  Terror  (1799). 

257 


258  THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

AUTHORITIES  : 

Memoirs  of  the  Life  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  by  John  G. 
Lockhart. 

Hours  in  a  Library  (first  series),  by  LesHe  Stephen. 

Sir  Walter  Scott,  by  George  Saintsbury  (Famous 
Scots  series). 

Sir  Walter  Scott,  by  Richard  Holt  Hutton  (English 
Men  of  Letters  series). 


WANDERING  WILLIE'S  TALE 

"  Honest  folks  like  me !  How  do  ye  ken  whether  I  am 
honest,  or  what  I  am  ?  I  may  be  the  deevil  himsell  for  what 
ye  ken,  for  he  has  power  to  come  disguised  like  an  angel  of 
light ;  and,  besides,  he  is  a  prime  fiddler.  He  played  a  sonata 
to  Corelli,  ye  ken." 

There  was  something  odd  in  this  speech,  and  the  tone  in 
which  it  was  said.  It  seemed  as  if  my  companion  was  not 
always  in  his  constant  mind,  or  that  he  was  willing  to  try 
if  he  could  frighten  me.  I  laughed  at  the  extravagance  of 
his  language,  however,  and  asked  him  in  reply  if  he  was  fool 
enough  to  believe  that  the  foul  fiend  would  play  so  silly  a 
masquerade. 

"  Ye  ken  little  about  it — little  about  it,"  said  the  old  man, 
shaking  his  head  and  beard,  and  knitting  his  brows.  "  I  could 
tell  ye  something  about  that." 

What  his  wife  mentioned  of  his  being  a  tale-teller  as  well 
as  a  musician  now  occurred  to  me ;  and  as,  you  know,  I  like 
tales  of  superstition,  I  begged  to  have  a  specimen  of  his 
talent  as  we  went  along. 

"  It  is  very  true,"  said  the  blind  man,  "  that  when  I  am 
tired  of  scraping  thairm  or  singing  ballants  I  whiles  make  a 
tale  serve  the  turn  among  the  country  bodies;  and  I  have 
some  fearsome  anes,  that  make  the  auld  carlines  shake  on  the 
settle,  and  the  bits  o'  bairns  skirl  on  their  minnies  out  frae 
their  beds.  But  this  that  I  am  going  to  tell  you  was  a  thing 
that  befell  in  our  ain  house  in  my  father's  time — that  is,  my 
father  was  then  a  hafflins  callant ;  and  I  tell  it  to  you,  that  it 
may  be  a  lesson  to  you  that  are  but  a  young  thoughtless  chap, 
wha  ye  draw  up  wi"*  on  a  lonely  road ;  for  muckle  was  the  dool 
and  care  that  came  o'  't  to  my  gudesire." 

He  commenced  his  tale  accordingly,  in  a  distinct  narra- 
tive tone  of  voice,  which  he  raised  and  depressed  with  con- 

259 


26o      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

siderable  skill;  at  times  sinking  almost  into  a  whisper,  and 
turning  his  clear  but  sightless  eyeballs  upon  my  face,  as  if  it 
had  been  possible  for  him  to  witness  the  impression  which 
his  narrative  made  upon  my  features.  I  will  not  spare  a 
syllable  of  it,  although  it  be  of  the  longest ;  so  I  make  a  dash 
— and  begin: 

Ye  maun  have  heard  of  Sir  Robert  Redgauntlet  of  that 
ilk,  who  lived  in  these  parts  before  the  dear  years.  The  coun- 
try will  lang  mind  him ;  and  our  fathers  used  to  draw  breath 
thick  if  ever  they  heard  him  named.  He  was  out  wi'  the 
Hielandmen  in  Montrose's  time;  and  again  he  was  in  the 
hills  wi'  Glencairn  in  the  saxteen  hundred  and  fifty-twa; 
and  sae  when  King  Charles  the  Second  came  in,  wha  was 
in  sic  favour  as  the  laird  of  Redgauntlet  ?  He  was  knighted 
at  Lonon  Court,  wi'  the  king's  ain  sword;  and  being  a  red- 
hot  prelatist,  he  came  down  here,  rampauging  like  a  lion, 
with  commissions  of  lieutenancy  (and  of  lunacy,  for  what  I 
ken),  to  put  down  a'  the  Whigs  and  Covenanters  in  the 
country.  Wild  wark  they  made  of  it ;  for  the  Whigs  were  as 
dour  as  the  Cavaliers  were  fierce,  and  it  was  which  should 
first  tire  the  other.  Redgauntlet  was  aye  for  the  strong 
hand ;  and  his  name  is  kend  as  wide  in  the  country  as  Claver- 
house's  or  Tam  Dalyell's.  Glen,  nor  dargle,  nor  mountain, 
nor  cave  could  hide  the  puir  hill-folk  when  Redgauntlet  was 
out  with  bugle  and  bloodhound  after  them,  as  if  they  had  been 
sae  mony  deer.  And,  troth,  when  they  fand  them,  they  didna 
make  muckle  mair  ceremony  than  a  Hielandman  wi'  a  roe- 
buck. It  was  just,  "  Will  ye  tak'  the  test?  "  If  not—"  Make 
ready — present — fire  !  "  and  there  lay  the  recusant. 

Far  and  wide  was  Sir  Robert  hated  and  feared.  Men 
thought  he  had  a  direct  compact  with  Satan ;  that  he  was 
proof  against  steel  and  that  bullets  happed  aff  his  buff-coat 
like  hailstanes  from  a  hearth ;  that  he  had  a  mear  that  would 
turn  a  hare  on  the  side  of  Carrifra-gauns ;  *  and  muckle  to 
the  same  purpose,  of  whilk  mair  anon.  The  best  blessing 
they  wared  on  him  was,  "  Deil  scowp  wi'  Redgauntlet !  "  He 
wasna  a  bad  master  to  his  ain  folk,  though,  and  was  weel 
aneugh  liked  by  his  tenants ;  and  as  for  the  lackeys  and  troop- 

*  A  precipitous  side  of  a  mountain  in  Moffatdale. 


WANDERING  WILLIE'S  TALE  a6l 

ers  that  rade  out  wi'  him  to  the  persecutions,  as  the  Whigs 
caa'd  those  killing-times,  they  wad  hae  drunken  themsells 
blind  to  his  health  at  ony  time. 

Now  you  are  to  ken  that  my  gudesire  lived  on  Redgaunt- 
let's  grund — they  ca'  the  place  Primrose  Knowe.  We  had 
lived  on  the  grund,  and  under  the  Redgauntlets,  since  the 
riding-days,  and  lang  before.  It  was  a  pleasant  bit;  and  I 
think  the  air  is  callerer  and  fresher  there  than  onywhere  else 
in  the  country.  It  's  a'  deserted  now;  and  I  sat  on  the 
broken  door-cheek  three  days  since,  and  was  glad  I  couldna 
see  the  plight  the  place  was  in — but  that  's  a'  wide  o'  the 
mark.  There  dwelt  my  gudesire,  Steenie  Steenson ;  a  ram- 
bling, rattling  chiel'  he  had  been  in  his  young  days,  and 
could  play  weel  on  the  pipes ;  he  was  famous  at  "  hoopers 
and  girders,"  a'  Cumberland  couldna  touch  him  at  "  Jockie 
Lattin,"  and  he  had  the  finest  finger  for  the  back-lilt  between 
Berwick  and  Carlisle.  The  like  o'  Steenie  wasna  the  sort 
that  they  made  Whigs  o'.  And  so  he  became  a  Tory,  as 
they  ca'  it,  which  we  now  ca'  Jacobites,  just  out  of  a  kind 
of  needcessity,  that  he  might  belang  to  some  side  or  other. 
He  had  nae  ill-will  to  the  Whig  bodies,  and  liked  little  to  see 
the  blude  rin,  though,  being  obliged  to  follow  Sir  Robert  in 
hunting  and  hoisting,  watching  and  warding,  he  saw  niuckle 
mischief,  and  maybe  did  some  that  he  couldna  avoid. 

Now  Steenie  was  a  kind  of  favourite  with  his  master, 
and  kend  a'  the  folk  about  the  castle,  and  was  often  sent  for 
to  play  the  pipes  when  they  were  at  their  merriment.  Auld 
Dougal  MacCallum,  the  butler,  that  had  followed  Sir  Robert 
through  gude  and  ill,  thick  and  thin,  pool  and  stream,  was 
specially  fond  of  the  pipes,  and  aye  gae  my  gudesire  his 
gude  wurd  wi'  the  laird;  for  Dougal  could  turn  his  master 
round  his  finger. 

Weel,  round  came  the  Revolution,  and  it  had  like  to  hae 
broken  the  hearts  baith  of  Dougal  and  his  master.  But  the 
change  was  not  a'thegether  sae  great  as  they  feared  and  other 
folk  thought  for.  The  Whigs  made  an  unco  crawing  what 
they  wad  do  with  their  auld  enemies,  and  in  special  wi'  Sir 
Robert  Redgauntlet.  But  there  were  owermony  great  folks 
dipped  in  the  same  doings  to  make  a  spick-and-span  new 
warld.  So  Parliament  passed  it  a'  ower  easy ;  and  Sir  Robert, 
bating  that  he  was  held  to  hunting  foxes  instead  of  Cove- 


262  THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

nanters,  remained  just  the  man  he  was.^  His  revel  was  as  loud, 
and  his  hall  as  weel  lighted,  as  ever  it  had  been,  though  may- 
be he  lacked  the  fines  of  the  nonconformists,  that  used  to 
come  to  stock  his  larder  and  cellar ;  for  it  is  certain  he  began 
to  be  keener  about  the  rents  than  his  tenants  used  to  find  him 
before,  and  they  behooved  to  be  prompt  to  the  rent-day,  or 
else  the  laird  wasna  pleased.  And  he  was  sic  an  awsome  body 
that  naebody  cared  to  anger  him;  for  the  oaths  he  swore, 
and  the  rage  that  he  used  to  get  into,  and  the  looks  that  he 
put  on  made  men  sometimes  think  him  a  devil  incarnate. 

Weel,  my  gudesire  was  nae  manager — no  that  he  was  a 
very  great  misguider — but  he  hadna  the  saving  gift,  and  he 
got  twa  terms'  rent  in  arrear.  He  got  the  first  brash  at 
Whitsunday  put  ower  wi'  fair  word  and  piping;  but  when 
Martinmas  came  there  was  a  summons  from  the  grund  officer 
to  come  wi'  the  rent  on  a  day  preceese,  or  else  Steenie  be- 
hooved to  flit.  Sair  wark  he  had  to  get  the  siller ;  but  he  was 
weel  freended,  and  at  last  he  got  the  haill  scraped  thegether 
— a  thousand  merks.  The  maist  of  it  was  from  a  neighbour 
they  caa'd  Laurie  Lapraik — a  sly  tod.  Laurie  had  wealth  o' 
gear,  could  hunt  wi'  the  hound  and  rin  wi'  the  hare,  and  be 
Whig  or  Tory,  saunt  or  sinner,  as  the  wind  stood.  He  was 
a  professor  in  this  Revolution  warld,  but  he  liked  an  orra 
sough  of  this  warld,  and  a  tune  on  the  pipes,  weel  aneugh  at 
a  by-time ;  and,  bune  a',  he  thought  he  had  gude  security  for 
the  siller  he  len  my  gudesire  ower  the  stocking  at  Primrose 
Knowe. 

Away  trots  my  gudesire  to  Redgauntlet  Castle  wi'  a 
heavy  purse  and  a  light  heart,  glad  to  be  out  of  the  laird's 
danger.  Weel,  the  first  thing  he  learned  at  the  castle  was 
that  Sir  Robert  had  fretted  himsell  into  a  fit  of  the  gout 
because  he  did  no  appear  before  twelve  o'clock.     It  wasna 

*  The  caution  and  moderation  of  King  William  III.,  and  his 
principles  of  unlimited  toleration,  deprived  the  Cameronians  of  the 
opportunity  they  ardently  desired,  to  retaliate  the  injuries  which 
they  had  received  during  the  reign  of  prelacy,  and  purify  the  land, 
as  they  called  it,  from  the  pollution  of  blood.  They  esteemed  the 
Revolution,  therefore,  only  a  half-measure,  which  neither  comprc 
hended  the  rebuilding  the  kirk  in  its  full  splendour,  nor  the  reveng 
of  the  death  of  the  saints  on  their  persecutors. 


WANDERING  WILLIE'S  TALE  263 

a'thegether  for  sake  of  the  money,  Dougal  thought,  but  be- 
cause he  didna  like  to  part  wi'  my  gudesire  aff  the  grund. 
Dougal  was  glad  to  see  Steenie,  and  brought  him  into  the 
great  oak  parlour;  and  there  sat  the  laird  his  leesome  lane, 
excepting  that  he  had  beside  him  a  great,  ill-favoured  jacka- 
nape  that  was  a  special  pet  of  his.  A  cankered  beast  it  was, 
and  mony  an  ill-natured  trick  it  played;  ill  to  please  it  was, 
and  easily  angered — ran  about  the  haill  castle,  chattering 
and  rowling,  and  pinching  and  biting  folk,  specially  before  ill 
weather,  or  disturbance  in  the  state.  Sir  Robert  caa'd  it 
Major  Weir,  after  the  warlock  that  was  burnt ;  ^  and  few 
folk  liked  either  the  name  or  the  conditions  of  the  creature — 
they  thought  there  was  something  in  it  by  ordinar — and  my 
gudesire  was  not  just  easy  in  mind  when  the  door  shut  on 
him,  and  he  saw  himsell  in  the  room  wi'  naebody  but  the 
laird,  Dougal  MacCallum,  and  the  major — a  thing  that  hadna 
chanced  to  him  before. 

Sir  Robert  sat,  or,  I  should  say,  lay,  in  a  great  arm-chair, 
wi'  his  grand  velvet  gown,  and  his  feet  on  a  cradle;  for  he 
had  baith  gout  and  gravel,  and  his  face  looked  as  gash  and 
ghastly  as  Satan's.  Major  Weir  sat  opposite  to  him,  in  a 
red-laced  coat,  and  the  laird's  wig  on  his  head;  and  aye  as 
Sir  Robert  girned  wi'  pain,  the  jackanape  girned  too,  like  a 
sheep's  head  between  a  pair  of  tangs — an  ill-faur'd,  fearsome 
couple  they  were.  The  laird's  buff-coat  was  hung  on  a  pin 
behind  him,  and  his  broadsword  and  his  pistols  within  reach ; 
for  he  keepit  up  the  auld  fashion  of  having  the  weapons  ready, 
and  a  horse  saddled  day  and  night,  just  as  he  used  to  do 
when  he  was  able  to  loup  on  horseback,  and  sway  after  ony 
of  the  hill-folk  he  could  get  speerings  of.  Some  said  it  was 
for  fear  of  the  Whigs  taking  vengeance,  but  I  judge  it  was 
just  his  auld  custom — he  wasna  gine  not  fear  onything.  The 
rental-book,  wi'  its  black  cover  and  brass  clasps,  was  lying 
beside  him ;  and  a  book  of  sculduddery  sangs  was  put  be- 
twixt the  leaves,  to  keep  it  open  at  the  place  where  it  bore 
evidence  against  the  goodman  of  Primrose  Knowe,  as  behind 
the  hand  with  his  mails  and  duties.  Sir  Robert  gave  my 
gudesire  a  look,  as  if  he  would  have  withered  his  heart  in 

*  A  celebrated  wizard,  executed  at  Edinburgh  for  sorcery  and 
other  crimes. 


264      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

his  bosom.  Ye  maun  ken  he  had  a  way  of  bending  his  brows 
that  men  saw  the  visible  mark  of  a  horseshoe  in  his  fore- 
head, deep-tinted,  as  if  it  had  been  stamped  there. 

"Are  ye  come  light-handed,  ye  son  of  a  toom  whistle?" 
said  Sir  Robert.    "  Zounds  !  if  you  are " 

My  gudesire,  with  as  gude  a  countenance  as  he  could  put 
on,  made  a  leg,  and  placed  the  bag  of  money  on  the  table 
wi'  a  dash,  like  a  man  that  does  something  clever.  The  laird 
drew  it  to  him  hastily.    "  Is  it  all  here,  Steenie,  man?  " 

"  Your  honour  will  find  it  right,"  said  my  gudesire. 

"  Here,  Dougal,"  said  the  laird,  "  gie  Steenie  a  tass  of 
brandy,  till  I  count  the  siller  and  write  the  receipt." 

But  they  werena  weel  out  of  the  room  when  Sir  Robert 
gied  a  yelloch  that  garr'd  the  castle  rock.  Back  ran  Dougal ; 
in  flew  the  liverymen;  yell  on  yell  gied  the  laird,  ilk  ane  mair 
awfu'  than  the  ither.  My  gudesire  knew  not  whether  to  stand 
or  flee,  but  he  ventured  back  into  the  parlour,  where  a'  was 
gaun  hirdie-girdie — naebody  to  say  "  come  in  "  or  "  gae  out." 
Terribly  the  laird  roared  for  cauld  water  to  his  feet,  and  wine 
to  cool  his  throat ;  and  "  Hell,  hell,  hell,  and  its  flames,"  was 
aye  the  word  in  his  mouth.  They  brought  him  water,  and 
when  they  plunged  his  swoln  feet  into  the  tub,  he  cried  out 
it  was  burning;  and  folks  say  that  it  did  bubble  and  sparkle 
like  a  seething  cauldron.  He  flung  the  cup  at  Dougal's  head 
and  said  he  had  given  him  blood  instead  of  Burgundy;  and, 
sure  aneugh,  the  lass  washed  clotted  blood  afif  the  carpet  the 
neist  day.  The  jackanape  they  caa'd  Major  Weir,  it  jib- 
bered  and  cried  as  if  it  was  mocking  its  master.  My  gude- 
sire's  head  was  like  to  turn ;  he  forgot  baith  siller  and  receipt, 
and  downstairs  he  banged ;  but,  as  he  ran,  the  shrieks  came 
fainter  and  fainter ;  there  was  a  deep-drawn  shivering  groan, 
and  word  gaed  through  the  castle  that  the  laird  was  dead. 

Weel,  away  came  my  gudesire  wi'  his  finger  in  his  mouth, 
and  his  best  hope  was  that  Dougal  had  seen  "the  money-bag 
and  heard  the  laird  speak  of  writing  the  receipt.  The  young 
laird,  now  Sir  John,  came  from  Edinburgh  to  see  thihgs  put 
to  rights.  Sir  John  and  his  father  never  'greed  weel.  Sir 
John  had  been  bred  an  advocate,  and  afterward  sat  in  the  last 
Scots  Parliament  and  voted  for  the  Union,  having  gotten, 
it  was  thought,  a  rug  of  the  compensations — if  his  father 
could  have  come  out  of  his  grave  he  would  have  brained 


WANDERING  WILLIE'S  TALE  265 

him  for  it  on  his  awn  hearthstane.  Some  thought  it  was 
easier  counting  with  the  auld  rough  knight  than  the  fair- 
spoken  young  ane — but  mair  of  that  anon. 

Dougal  MacCallum,  poor  body,  neither  grat  nor  graned, 
but  gaed  about  the  house  looking  like  a  corpse,  but  direct- 
ing, as  was  his  duty,  a*  the  order  of  the  grand  funeral.  Now 
Dougal  looked  aye  waur  and  waur  when  night  was  coming, 
and  was  aye  the  last  to  gang  to  his  bed,  whilk  was  in  a 
little  round  just  opposite  the  chamber  of  dais,  whilk  his  master 
occupied  while  he  was  living,  and  where  he  now  lay  in  state, 
as  they  caa'd  it,  weeladay  !  The  night  before  the  funeral  Dou- 
gal could  keep  his  awn  counsel  nae  longer;  he  came  doun 
wi'  his  proud  spirit,  and  fairly  asked  auld  Hutcheon  to  sit  in 
his  room  with  him  for  an  hour.  When  they  were  in  the  round, 
Dougal  took  a  tass  of  brandy  to  himsell,  and  gave  another  to 
Hutcheon,  and  wished  him  all  health  and  lang  life,  and  said 
that,  for  himsell,  he  wasna  lang  for  this  world ;  for  that  every 
night  since  Sir  Robert's  death  his  silver  call  had  sounded 
from  the  state  chamber  just  as  it  used  to  do  at  nights  in  his 
lifetime  to  call  Dougal  to  help  to  turn  him  in  his  bed.  Dougal 
said  that,  being  alone  with  the  dead  on  that  floor  of  the  tower 
(for  naebody  cared  to  wake  Sir  Robert  Redgauntlet  like 
another  corpse),  he  had  never  daured  to  answer  the  call,  but 
that  now  his  conscience  checked  him  for  neglecting  his  duty  ; 
for,  "  though  death  breaks  service,"  said  MacCallum,  "  it 
shall  never  weak  my  service  to  Sir  Robert ;  and  I  will  answer 
his  next  whistle,  so  be  you  will  stand  by  me,  Hutcheon." 

Hutcheon  had  nae  will  to  the  wark,  but  he  had  stood  by 
Dougal  in  battle  and  broil,  and  he  wad  not  fail  him  at  this 
pinch ;  so  doun  the  carles  sat  ower  a  stoup  of  brandy,  and 
Hutcheon,  who  was  something  of  a  clerk,  would  have  read 
a  chapter  of  the  Bible ;  but  Dougal  would  hear  naething  but 
a  blaud  of  Davie  Lindsay,  whilk  was  the  waur  preparation. 

When  midnight  came,  and  the  house  was  quiet  as  the 
grave,  sure  enough  the  silver  whistle  sounded  as  sharp  and 
shrill  as  if  Sir  Robert  was  blowing  it;  and  up  got  the  twa 
auld  serving-men,  and  tottered  into  the  room  where  the  dead 
man  lay.  Hutcheon  saw  aneugh  at  the  first  glance ;  for  there 
were  torches  in  the  room,  which  showed  him  the  foul  fiend, 
in  his  ain  shape,  sitting  on  the  laird's  coffin  !  Ower  he  couped 
as  if  he  had  been  dead.  He  could  not  tell  how  lang  he  lay  in 
18 


266      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

a  trance  at  the  door,  but  when  he  gathered  himsell  he  cried  on 
his  neighbour,  and  getting  nae  answer  raised  the  house,  when 
Dougal  was  found  lying  dead  within  twa  steps  of  the  bed 
where  his  master's  coffin  was  placed.  As  for  the  whistle, 
it  was  gane  anes  and  aye;  but  mony  a  time  was  it  heard  at 
the  top  of  the  house  on  the  bartizan,  and  amang  the  auld 
chimneys  and  turrets  where  the  howlets  have  their  nests. 
Sir  John  hushed  the  matter  up,  and  the  funeral  passed  over 
without  mair  bogie  wark. 

But  when  a'  was  ower,  and  the  laird  was  beginning  to 
settle  his  affairs,  every  tenant  was  called  up  for  his  arrears, 
and  my  gudesire  for  the  full  sum  that  stood  against  him  in 
the  rental-book.  Weel,  away  he  trots  to  the  castle  to  tell 
his  story,  and  there  he  is  introduced  to  Sir  John,  sitting  in 
his  father's  chair,  in  deep  mourning,  with  weepers  and  hang- 
ing cravat,  and  a  small  walking-rapier  by  his  side,  instead  of 
the  auld  broadsword  that  had  a  hundredweight  of  steel  about 
it,  what  with  blade,  chape,  and  basket-hilt.  I  have  heard 
their  communings  so  often  tauld  ower  that  I  almost  think  I 
was  there  mysell,  though  I  couldna  be  born  at  the  time.  [In 
fact,  Alan,  my  companion,  mimicked,  with  a  good  deal  of 
humour,  the  flattering,  conciliating  tone  of  the  tenant's  ad- 
dress and  the  hypocritical  melancholy  of  the  laird's  reply.  His 
grandfather,  he  said,  had,  while  he  spoke,  his  eye  fixed  on  the 
rental-book,  as  if  it  were  a  mastiff-dog  that  he  was  afraid 
would  spring  up  and  bite  him.] 

"  I  wuss  ye  joy,  sir,  of  the  head  seat  and  the  white  loaf 
and  the  brid  lairdship.  Your  father  was  a  kind  man  to 
freends  and  followers;  muckle  grace  to  you,  Sir  John,  to  fill 
his  shoon — his  boots,  I  suld  say,  for  he  seldom  wore  shoon, 
unless  it  were  muils  when  he  had  the  gout." 

"  Ay,  Steenie,"  quoth  the  laird,  sighing  deeply,  and  put- 
ting his  napkin  to  his  een,  "  his  was  a  sudden  call,  and  he 
will  be  missed  in  the  country;  no  time  to  set  his  house  in 
order — weel  prepared  Godward,  no  doubt,  which  is  the  root 
of  the  matter ;  but  he  left  us  behind  a  tangled  hesp  to  wind, 
Steenie.  Hem !  hem !  We  maun  go  to  business,  Steenie ; 
much  to  do,  and  little  time  to  do  it  in." 

Here  he  opened  the  fatal  volume.  I  have  heard  of  a 
thing  they  call  Doomsday-book — I  am  clear  it  has  been  at 
rental  of  back-ganging  tenants. 


WANDERING  WILLIE'S  TALE  267 

"  Stephen,"  said  Sir  John,  still  in  the  same  soft,  sleekit 
tone  of  voice — "  Stephen  Stevenson,  or  Steenson,  ye  are 
down  here  for  a  year's  rent  behind  the  hand — due  at  last 
term." 

Stephen.  Please  your  honour,  Sir  John,  I  paid  it  to  your 
father. 

Sir  John.  Ye  took  a  receipt,  then,  doubtless,  Stephen,  and 
can  produce  it? 

Stephen.  Indeed,  I  hadna  time,  and  it  like  your  honour; 
for  nae  sooner  had  I  set  doun  the  siller,  and  just  as  his  hon- 
our, Sir  Robert,  that  's  gaen,  drew  it  till  him  to  count  it  and 
write  out  the  receipt,  he  was  ta'en  wi'  the  pains  that  removed 
him. 

"  That  was  unlucky,"  said  Sir  John,  after  a  pause.  "  But 
ye  maybe  paid  it  in  the  presence  of  somebody.  I  want  but 
a  talis  qualis  evidence,  Stephen.  I  would  go  ower-strictly  to 
work  with  no  poor  man." 

Stephen.  Troth,  Sir  John,  there  was  naebody  in  the  room 
but  Dougal  MacCallum,  the  butler.  But,  as  your  honour 
kens,  he  has  e'en  followed  his  auld  master. 

*'Very  unlucky  again,  Stephen,"  said  Sir  John,  without 
altering  his  voice  a  single  note.  "  The  man  to  whom  ye  paid 
the  money  is  dead,  and  the  man  who  witnessed  the  payment 
is  dead  too ;  and  the  siller  which  should  have  been  to  the 
fore,  is  neither  seen  nor  heard  tell  of  in  the  repositories. 
How  am  I  to  believe  a'  this?  " 

Stephen.  I  dinna  ken,  your  honour;  but  there  is  a  bit 
memorandum  note  of  the  very  coins,  for,  God  help  me !  I 
had  to  borrow  out  of  twenty  purses;  and  I  am  sure  that  ilka 
man  there  set  down  will  take  his  grit  oath  for  what  purpose 
I  borrowed  the  money. 

Sir  John.  I  have  little  doubt  ye  borrowed  the  money, 
Steenie.    It  is  the  payment  that  I  want  to  have  proof  of. 

Stephen.  The  siller  maun  be  about  the  house.  Sir  John, 
And  since  your  honour  never  got  it,  and  his  honour  that  was 
canna  have  ta'en  it  wi'  him,  maybe  some  of  the  family  may 
hae  seen  it. 

Sir  John.  We  will  examine  the  servants,  Stephen ;  that  is 
but  reasonable. 

But  lackey  and  lass,  and  page  and  groom,  all  denied 
stoutly  that  they  had  even  seen  such  a  bag  of  money  as  my 


ft68  THE  BOOIt  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

gudesire  described.  What  saw  waur,  he  had  unluckily  not 
mentioned  to  any  living  soul  of  them  his  purpose  of  paying 
his  rent.  Ae  quean  had  noticed  something  under  his  arm, 
but  she  took  it  for  the  pipes. 

Sir  John  Redgauntlet  ordered  the  servants  out  of  the 
room  and  then  said  to  my  gudesire :  "  Now,  Steenie,  ye  see 
ye  have  fair  play;  and,  as  I  have  little  doubt  ye  ken  better 
where  to  find  the  siller  than  ony  other  body,  I  beg  in  fair 
terms,  and  for  your  own  sake,  that  you  will  end  this  fasherie; 
for,  Stephen,  ye  maun  pay  or  flit." 

"  The  Lord  forgie  your  opinion,"  said  Stephen,  driven 
almost  to  his  wit's  end — "  I  am  an  honest  man." 

"  So  am  I,  Stephen,"  said  his  honour ;  "  and  so  are  all  the 
folks  in  this  house,  I  hope.  But  if  there  be  a  knave  among  us, 
it  must  be  he  that  tells  the  story  he  cannot  prove."  He  paused, 
and  then  added,  mair  sternly :  "  If  I  understand  your  trick,  sir, 
you  want  to  take  advantage  of  some  malicious  reports  con- 
cerning things  in  this  family,  and  particularly  respecting  my 
father's  sudden  death,  thereby  to  cheat  me  out  of  the  money, 
and  perhaps  take  away  my  character  by  insinuating  that  I 
have  received  the  rent  I  am  demanding.  Where  do  you  sup- 
pose this  money  to  be?    I  insist  upon  knowing." 

My  gudesire  saw  everything  look  so  muckle  against  him 
that  he  grew  nearly  desperate.  However,  he  shifted  from 
one  foot  to  another,  looked  to  every  corner  of  the  room,  and 
made  no  answer. 

"  Speak  out,  sirrah,"  said  the  laird,  assuming  a  look  of  his 
father's,  a  very  particular  ane,  which  he  had  when  he  was 
angry — it  seemed  as  if  the  wrinkles  of  his  frown  made  that 
selfsame  fearful  shape  of  a  horse's  shoe  in  the  middle  of  his 
brow;  "speak  out,  sir!  I  will  know  your  thoughts;  do  you 
suppose  that  I  have  this  money?" 

"  Far  be  it  frae  me  to  say  so,"  said  Stephen. 

"  Do  you  charge  any  of  my  people  with  having  taken  it  ?  " 

"I  wad  be  laith  to  charge  them  that  may  be  innocent," 
said  my  gudesire ;  "  and  if  there  be  any  one  that  is  guilty, 
I  have  nae  proof." 

"  Somewhere  the  money  must  be,  if  there  is  a  word  of 
truth  in  your  story,"  said  Sir  John ;  "  I  ask  where  you  think 
it  is — and  demand  a  correct  answer  !  " 

"  In  hell,  if  you  will  have  my  thoughts  of  it,"  said  my 


WANDERING'S  WILLIE'S  TALE  269 

gudesire,  driven  to  extremity — "  in  hell !  with  your  father,  his 
jackanape,  and  his  silver  whistle." 

Down  the  stairs  he  ran  (for  the  parlour  was  nae  place  for 
him  after  such  a  word)  and  he  heard  the  laird  swearing  blood 
and  wounds  behind  him,  as  fast  as  ever  did  Sir  Robert,  and 
roaring  for  the  bailie  and  the  baron-officer. 

Away  rode  my  gudesire  to  his  chief  creditor  (him  they 
caa'd  Laurie  Lapraik),  to  try  if  he  could  make  onything  out 
of  him;  but  when  he  tauld  his  story,  he  got  but  the  worst 
word  in  his  wame — thief,  beggar,  and  dyvour  were  the  saftest 
terms;  and  to  the  boot  of  these  hard  terms,  Laurie  brought 
up  the  auld  story  of  dipping  his  hand  in  the  blood  of  God's 
saunts,  just  as  if  a  tenant  could  have  helped  riding  with  the 
laird,  and  that  a  laird  like  Sir  Robert  Redgauntlet.  My  gude- 
sire was,  by  this  time,  far  beyond  the  bounds  of  patience,  and, 
while  he  and  Laurie  were  at  deil  speed  the  liars,  he  was  wan- 
chancie  aneugh  to  abuse  Lapraik's  doctrine  as  weel  as  the 
man,  and  said  things  that  garr'd  folks'  flesh  grue  that  heard 
them — he  wasna  just  himsell,  and  he  had  lived  wi'  a  wild  set 
in  his  day. 

At  last  they  parted,  and  my  gudesire  was  to  ride  hame 
through  the  wood  of  Pitmurkie,  that  is  a'  fou  of  black  firs, 
as  they  say.  I  ken  the  wood,  but  the  firs  may  be  black  or 
white  for  what  I  can  tell.  At  the  entry  of  the  wood  there 
is  a  wild  common,  and  on  the  edge  of  the  common  a  little 
lonely  change-house,  that  was  keepit  then  by  an  hostler  wife 
— they  suld  hae  caa'd  her  Tibbie  Faw — and  there  puir  Steenie 
cried  for  a  mutchkin  of  brandy,  for  he  had  had  no  refresh- 
ment the  haill  day.  Tibbie  was  earnest  wi'  him  to  take  a 
bite  of  meat,  but  he  couldna  think  o'  't,  nor  would  he  take 
his  foot  out  of  the  stirrup,  and  took  off  the  brandy  wholely 
at  twa  draughts,  and  named  a  toast  at  each.  The  first  was, 
the  memory  of  Sir  Robert  Redgauntlet,  and  may  he  never 
lie  quiet  in  his  grave  till  he  had  righted  his  poor  bond-tenant ; 
and  the  second  was,  a  health  to  Man's  Enemy,  if  he  would  but 
get  him  back  the  pock  of  siller,  or  tell  him  what  came  o'  't,  for 
he  saw  the  haill  world  was  like  to  regard  him  as  a  thief  and 
a  cheat,  and  he  took  that  waur  than  even  the  ruin  of  his  house 
and  hauld. 

On  he  rode,  little  caring  where.  It  was  a  dark  night 
turned,  and  the  trees  made  it  yet  darker,  and  he  let  the  beast 


2  70      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

take  its  ain  road  through  the  wood;  when  all  of  a  sudden, 
from  tired  and'  wearied  that  it  was  before,  the  nag  began  to 
spring"  and  flee  and  stend,  that  my  gudesire  could  hardly  keep 
the  saddle.  Upon  the  whilk,  a  horseman,  suddenly  riding  up 
beside  him,  said :  "  That  's  a  mettle  beast  of  yours,  freend ; 
will  you  sell  him?"  So  saying,  he  touched  the  horse's  neck 
with  his  riding-wand,  and  it  fell  into  its  auld  heigh-ho  of  a 
stumbling  trot.  "  But  his  spunk  's  soon  out  of  him,  I  think," 
continued  the  stranger,  "  and  that  is  like  mony  a  man's  cour- 
age, that  thinks  he  wad  do  great  things." 

My  gudesire  scarce  listened  to  this,  but  spurred  his  horse, 
with :  "  Gude-e'en  to  you,  freend." 

But  it  's  like  the  stranger  was  ane  that  doesna  lightly 
yield  his  point;  for,  ride  as  Steenie  liked,  he  was  aye  beside 
him  at  the  selfsame  pace.  At  last  my  gudesire,  Steenie 
Steenson,  grew  half  angry,  and,  to  say  the  truth,  half  feard. 

"  What  is  it  that  you  want  with  me,  freend  ?  "  he  said. 
"  If  ye  be  a  robber,  I  have  nae  money ;  if  ye  be  a  leal  man, 
wanting  company,  I  have  nae  heart  to  mirth  or  speaking; 
and  if  ye  want  to  ken  the  road,  I  scarce  ken  it  mysell." 

"  If  you  will  tell  me  your  grief,"  said  the  stranger,  "  I 
am  one  that,  though  I  have  been  sair  miscaa'd  in  the  world, 
am  the  only  hand  for  helping  my  freends." 

So  my  gudesire,  to  ease  his  ain  heart,  mair  than  from 
any  hope  of  help,  told  him  the  story  from  beginning  to  end. 

"It 's  a  hard  pinch,"  said  the  stranger ;  "  but  I  think  I  can 
help  you." 

**  If  you  could  lend  the  money,  sir,  and  take  a  lang  day — 
I  ken  nae  other  help  on  earth,"  said  my  gudesire. 

"  But  there  may  be  some  under  the  earth,"  said  the 
stranger.  "  Come,  I'll  be  frank  wi'  you;  I  could  lend  you  the 
money  on  bond,  but  you  would  maybe  scruple  my  terms. 
Now  I  can  tell  you  that  your  auld  laird  is  disturbed  in  his 
grave  by  your  curses  and  the  wailing  of  your  family,  and  if 
ye  daur  venture  to  go  to  see  him,  he  will  give  you  the  re- 
ceipt." 

My  gudesire's  hair  stood  on  end  at  this  proposal,  but  he 
thought  his  companion  might  be  some  humoursome  chield 
that  was  trying  to  frighten  him,  and  might  end  with  lending 
him  the  money.  Besides,  he  was  bauld  wi'  brandy,  and  des- 
perate wi'  distress;  and  he  said  he  had  courage  to  go  to  the 


WANDERING   WILLIE'S  TALE  ^11 

gate  of  hell,  and  a  step  farther,  for  that  receipt.  The  stranger 
laughed. 

Weel,  they  rode  on  through  the  thickest  of  the  wood, 
when,  all  of  a  sudden,  the  horse  stopped  at  the  door  of  a 
great  house;  and,  but  that  he  knew  the  place  was  ten  miles 
off,  my  father  would  have  thought  he  was  at  Redgauntlet 
Castle.  They  rode  into  the  outer  courtyard,  through  the 
muckle  faulding  yetts,  and  aneath  the  auld  portcullis;  and 
the  whole  front  of  the  house  was  lighted,  and  there  were 
pipes  and  fiddles,  and  as  much  dancing  and  deray  within  as 
used  to  be  at  Sir  Robert's  house  at  Pace  and  Yule,  and  such 
high  seasons.  They  lap  off,  and  my  gudesire,  as  seemed  to 
him,  fastened  his  horse  to  the  very  ring  he  had  tied  him  to 
that  morning  when  he  gaed  to  wait  on  the  young  Sir  John. 

"  God !  "  said  my  gudesire,  "  if  Sir  Robert's  death  be  but  a 
dream !  " 

He  knocked  at  the  ha'  door  just  as  he  was  wont,  and  his 
auld  acquaintance,  Dougal  MacCallum — just  after  his  wont, 
too — came  to  open  the  door,  and  said :  "  Piper  Steenie,  are  ye 
there,  lad  ?    Sir  Robert  has  been  crying  for  you." 

My  gudesire  was  like  a  man  in  a  dream — he  looked  for 
the  stranger,  but  he  was  gane  for  the  time.  At  last  he  just 
tried  to  say:  "Ha!  Dougal  Driveower,  are  you  living?  I 
thought  ye  had  been  dead." 

"  Never  fash  yoursell  wi'  me,"  said  Dougal,  "  but  look  to 
yoursell ;  and  see  ye  tak'  naething  frae  onybody  here,  neither 
meat,  drink,  or  siller,  except  the  receipt  that  is  your  ain." 

So  saying,  he  led  the  way  out  through  halls  and  trances 
that  were  weel  kend  to  my  gudesire,  and  into  the  auld  oak 
parlour;  and  there  was  as  much  singing  of  profane  sangs,  and 
birling  of  red  wine,  and  blasphemy  and  sculduddery  as  had 
ever  been  in  Redgauntlet  Castle  when  it  was  at  the  blythest. 

But  Lord  take  us  in  keeping !  what  a  set  of  ghastly  revel- 
lers there  were  that  sat  around  that  table  !  My  gudesire  kend 
mony  that  had  long  before  gane  to  their  place,  for  often  had 
he  piped  to  the  most  part  in  the  hall  of  Redgauntlet.  There 
was  the  fierce  Middleton,  and  the  dissolute  Rothes,  and  the 
crafty  Lauderdale;  and  Dalyell,  with  his  bald  head  and  a 
beard  to  his  girdle ;  and  Earlshall,  with  Cameron's  blude  on 
his  hand;  and  wild  Bonshaw,  that  tied  blessed  Mr.  Cargill's 
limbs  till   the  blude  sprung;  and  Dumbarton   Douglas,  the 


^12  THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

twice-turned  traitor  baith  to  country  and  king.  There  was 
the  Bludy  Advocate  MacKenyie,  who,  for  his  wordly  wit 
and  wisdom,  had  been  to  the  rest  as  a  god.  And  there  was 
Claverhouse,  as  beautiful  as  when  he  lived,  with  his  long, 
dark,  curled  locks  streaming  down  over  his  laced  buff-coat, 
and  with  his  left  hand  always  on  his  right  spule-blade,  to 
hide  the  wound  that  the  silver  bullet  had  made.^  He  sat  apart 
from  them  all,  and  looked  at  them  with  a  melancholy,  haughty 
countenance;  while  the  rest  hallooed  and  sang  and  laughed, 
that  the  room  rang.  But  their  smiles  were  fearfully  con- 
torted from  time  to  time ;  and  their  laughter  passed  into  such 
wild  sounds  as  made  my  gudesire's  very  nails  grow  blue,  and 
chilled  the  marrow  in  his  banes. 

They  that  waited  at  the  table  were  just  the  wicked  serving- 
men  and  troopers  that  had  done  their  work  and  cruel  bid- 
ding on  earth.  There  was  the  Lang  Lad  of  the  Nethertown, 
that  helped  to  take  Argyle ;  and  the  bishop's  summoner, 
that  they  called  the  Deil's  Rattlebag ;  and  the  wicked  guards- 
men in  their  laced  coats;  and  the  savage  Highland  Amorites, 
that  shed  blood  like  water;  and  mony  a  proud  serving-man, 
haughty  of  heart  and  bloody  of  hand,  cringing  to  the  rich,  and 
making  them  wickeder  than  they  would  be ;  grinding  the  poor 
to  powder  when  the  rich  had  broken  them  to  fragments.  And 
mony,  mony  mair  were  coming  and  ganging,  a*  as  busy  in 
their  vocation  as  if  they  had  been  alive. 

Sir  Robert  Redgauntlet,  in  the  midst  of  a'  this  fearful 
riot,  cried,  wi'  a  voice  like  thunder,  on  Steenie  Piper  to  come 
to  the  board-head  where  he  was  sitting,  his  legs  stretched 
out  before  him,  and  swathed  up  with  flannel,  with  his  holster 
pistols  aside  him,  while  the  great  broadsword  rested  against 
his  chair,  just  as  my  gudesire  had  seen  him  the  last  time  upon 
earth;  the  very  cushion  for  the  jackanape  was  close  to  him; 
but  the  creature  itsell  was  not  there — it  wasna  its  hour,  it  's 

*  The  personages  here  mentioned  are  most  of  them  characters 
of  historical  fame  ;  but  those  less  known  and  remembered  may  be 
found  in  the  tract  entitled  The  Judgment  and  Justice  of  God  Ex- 
emplified ;  or,  A  Brief  Historical  Account  of  some  of  the  Wicked 
Lives  and  Miserable  Deaths  of  some  of  the  most  Remarkable  Apos- 
tates and  Bloody  Persecutors,  from  the  Reformation  till  after  the 
Revolution. 


WANDERING   WILLIE'S  TALE  273 

likely ;  for  he  heard  them  say,  as  he  came  forward :  "  Is  not 
the  major  come  yet?  "  And  another  answered:  "  The  jacka- 
nape  will  be  here  betimes  the  morn."  And  when  my  gudesire 
came  forward.  Sir  Robert,  or  his  ghaist,  or  the  deevil  in  his 
likeness,  said :  "  Weel,  piper,  hae  ye  settled  wi'  my  son  for  the 
year's  rent?  " 

With  much  ado  my  father  gat  breath  to  say  that  Sir  John 
would  not  settle  without  his  honour's  receipt. 

"  Ye  shall  hae  that  for  a  tune  of  the  pipes,  Steenie,"  said 
the  appearance  of  Sir  Robert — "  play  us  up  Weel  Hoddled, 
Luckie." 

Now  this  was  a  tune  my  gudesire  learned  frae  a  warlock, 
that  heard  it  when  they  were  worshipping  Satan  at  their  meet- 
ings ;  and  my  gudesire  had  sometimes  played  it  at  the  ranting 
suppers  in  Redgauntlet  Castle,  but  never  very  willingly ;  and 
now  he  grew  cauld  at  the  very  name  of  it,  and  said,  for  ex- 
cuse, he  hadna  his  pipes  wi'  him. 

"  MacCallum,  ye  limb  of  Beelzebub,"  said  the  fearfu'  Sir 
Robert,  "  bring  Steenie  the  pipes  that  I  am  keeping  for  him  !  " 

MacCallum  brought  a  pair  of  pipes  might  have  served  the 
piper  of  Donald  of  the  Isles.  But  he  gave  my  gudesire  a 
nudge  as  he  offered  them;  and  looking  secretly  and  closely, 
Steenie  saw  that  the  chanter  was  of  steel,  and  heated  to  a 
white  heat;  so  he  had  fair  warning  not  to  trust  his  fingers 
with  it.  So  he  excused  himsell  again,  and  said  he  was  faint 
and  frightened,  and  had  not  wind  aneugh  to  fill  the  bag. 

"  Then  ye  maun  eat  and  drink,  Steenie,"  said  the  figure ; 
"  for  we  do  little  else  here ;  and  it  's  ill  speaking  between  a 
fou  man  and  a  fasting."  Now  these  were  the  very  words 
that  the  bloody  Earl  of  Douglas  said  to  keep  the  king's  mes- 
senger in  hand  while  he  cut  the  head  off  MacLellan  of  Bom- 
bie,  at  the  Threave  Castle ;  *  and  that  put  Steenie  mair  and 
mair  on  his  guard.  So  he  spoke  up  like  a  man,  and  said  he 
came  neither  to  eat  nor  drink,  nor  make  minstrelsy ;  but  sim- 
ply for  his  ain — to  ken  what  was  come  o'  the  money  he  had 
paid,  and  to  get  a  discharge  for  it;  and  he  was  so  stout- 
hearted by  this  time  that  he  charged  Sir  Robert  for  con- 
science's sake  (he  had  no  power  to  say  the  holy  name),  and 

*  The  reader  is  referred  for  particulars  to  Pitscottie's  History  of 
Scotland. 


274      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

as  he  hoped  for  peace  and  rest,  to  spread  no  snares  for  him, 
but  just  to  give  him  his  ain. 

The  appearance  gnashed  its  teeth  and  laughed,  but  it  took 
from  a  large  pocket-book  the  receipt,  and  handed  it  to  Steenie. 
"There  is  your  receipt,  ye  pitiful  cur;  and  for  the  money, 
my  dog-whelp  of  a  son  may  go  look  for  it  in  the  Cat's 
Cradle." 

My  gudesire  uttered  mony  thanks,  and  was  about  to  re- 
tire, when  Sir  Robert  roared  aloud:  "Stop,  though,  thou 
sack-doudling  son  of  a —  !  I  am  not  done  with  thee.  Here 
we  do  nothing  for  nothing;  and  you  must  return  on  this  very 
day  twelvemonth  to  pay  your  master  the  homage  that  you 
owe  me  for  my  protection." 

My  father's  tongue  was  loosed  of  a  suddenty,  and  he 
said  aloud :  "  I  refer  myself  to  God's  pleasure,  and  not  to 
yours." 

He  had  no  sooner  uttered  the  word  than  all  was  dark 
around  him;  and  he  sank  on  the  earth  with  such  a  sudden 
shock  that  he  lost  both  breath  and  sense. 

How  lang  Steenie  lay  there  he  could  not  tell;  but  when 
he  came  to  himself  he  was  lying  in  the  auld  kirkyard  of 
Redgauntlet  parochine,  just  at  the  door  of  the  family  aisle, 
and  the  scutcheon  of  the  auld  knight,  Sir  Robert,  hanging  over 
his  head.  There  was  a  deep  morning  fog  on  grass  and  grave- 
stane  around  him,  and  his  horse  was  feeding  quietly  beside 
the  minister's  twa  cows.  Steenie  would  have  thought  the 
whole  was  a  dream,  but  he  had  the  receipt  in  his  hand  fairly 
written  and  signed  by  the  auld  laird ;  only  the  last  letters  of 
his  name  were  a  little  disorderly,  written  like  one  seized  with 
sudden  pain. 

Sorely  troubled  in  his  mind,  he  left  that  dreary  place, 
rode  through  the  mist  to  Redgauntlet  Castle,  and  with  much 
ado  he  got  speech  of  the  laird. 

"Well,  you  dyvour  bankrupt,"  was  the  first  word,  "have 
you  brought  me  my  rent?" 

"  No,"  answered  my  gudesire,  "  I  have  not ;  but  I  have 
brought  your  honour  Sir  Robert's  receipt  for  it." 

"  How,  sirrah  ?  Sir  Robert's  receipt !  You  told  me  he  had 
not  given  you  one." 

"  Will  your  honour  please  to  see  if  that  bit  line  is  right?  " 

Sir  John  loQked  at  every  line,  and  at  every  letter,  with 


WANDERING  WILLIE'S  TALE  475 

much  attention;  and  at  last-at  the  date,  which  my  gudesire 
had  not  observed — "  From  my  appointed  place,"  he  read, 
"  this  twenty-fifth  of  November." 

"  What !  That  is  yesterday !  Villain,  thou  must  have 
gone  to  hell  for  this  !  " 

*'  I  got  it  from  your  honour's  father ;  whether  he  be  in 
heaven  or  hell,  I  know  not,"  said  Steenie. 

**  I  will  debate  you  for  a  warlock  to  the  Privy  Council !  " 
said  Sir  John.  "  I  will  send  you  to  your  master,  the  devil, 
with  the  help  of  a  tar-barrel  and  a  torch  !  " 

"  I  intend  to  debate  mysell  to  the  Presbytery,"  said  Steenie, 
"  and  tell  them  all  I  have  seen  last  night,  whilk  are  things 
fitter  for  them  to  judge  of  than  a  borrel  man  like  me." 

Sir  John  paused,  composed  himsell,  and  desired  to  hear  the 
full  history;  and  my  gudesire  told  it  him  from  point  to  point, 
as  I  have  told  it  you — neither  more  nor  less. 

Sir  John  was  silent  again  for  a  long  time,  and  at  last  he 
said,  very  composedly :  "  Steenie,  this  story  of  yours  con- 
cerns the  honour  of  many  a  noble  family  besides  mine ;  and 
if  it  be  a  leasing-making,  to  keep  yourself  out  of  my  danger, 
the  least  you  can  expect  is  to  have  a  red-hot  iron  driven 
through  your  tongue,  and  that  will  be  as  bad  as  scaulding 
your  fingers  wi'  a  red-hot  chanter.  But  yet  it  may  be  true, 
Steenie;  and  if  the  money  cast  up,  I  shall  not  know  what  to 
think  of  it.  But  where  shall  we  find  the  Cat's  Cradle?  There 
are  cats  enough  about  the  old  house,  but  I  think  they  kitten 
without  the  ceremony  of  bed  or  cradle." 

"  We  were  best  ask  Hutcheon,"  said  my  gudesire ;  "  he 
kens  a'  the  odd  corners  about  as  weel  as — another  serving- 
man  that  is  now  gane,  and  that  I  wad  not  like  to  name." 

Aweel,  Hutcheon,  when  he  was  asked,  told  them  that 
a  ruinous  turret  lang  disused,  next  to  the  clock-house, 
only  accessible  by  a  ladder,  for  the  opening  was  on  the 
outside,  above  the  battlements,  was  called  of  old  the  Cat's 
Cradle. 

"  There  will  I  go  immediately,"  said  Sir  John ;  and  he 
took — with  what  purpose  Heaven  kens — one  of  his  father's 
pistols  from  the  hall-table,  where  they  had  lain  since  the 
night  he  died,  and  hastened  to  the  battlements. 

It  was  a  dangerous  place  to  climb,  for  the  ladder  was 
auld  and  frail,  and  wanted  ane  or  twa  rounds.     However, 


276     THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

up  got  Sir  John,  and  entered  at  the  turret  door,  where  hi* 
body  stopped  the  only  little  light  that  was  in  the  bit  turret. 
Something  flees  at  him  wi'  a  vengeance,  maist  dang  him 
back  ower — bang !  gaed  the  knight's  pistol,  and  Hutcheon, 
that  held  the  ladder,  and  my  gudesire,  that  stood  beside  him, 
hears  a  loud  skelloch.  A  minute  after,  Sir  John  flings  the 
body  of  the  jackanape  down  to  them,  and  cries  that  the  siller 
is  fund,  and  that  they  should  come  up  and  help  him.  And 
there  was  the  bag  of  siller  sure  aneugh,  and  mony  orra  thing 
besides,  that  had  been  missing  for  mony  a  day.  And  Sir 
John,  when  he  had  riped  the  turret  weel,  led  my  gudesire  into 
the  dining-parlour,  and  took  him  by  the  hand,  and  spoke 
kindly  to  him,  and  said  he  was  sorry  he  should  have  doubted 
his  word,  and  that  he  would  hereafter  be  a  good  master  to 
him,  to  make  amends. 

"And  now,  Steenie,"  said  Sir  John,  "  although  this  vision 
of  yours  tends,  on  the  whole,  to  my  father's  credit  as  an  hon- 
est man,  that  he  should,  even  after  his  death,  desire  to  see 
justice  done  to  a  poor  man  like  you,  yet  you  are  sensible  that 
ill-dispositioned  men  might  make  bad  constructions  upon  it 
concerning  his  soul's  health.  So,  I  think,  we  had  better  lay 
the  haill  dirdum  on  that  ill-deedie  creature.  Major  Weir,  and 
say  naething  about  your  dream  in  the  wood  of  Pitmurkie. 
You  had  taen  ower-muckle  brandy  to  be  very  certain  about 
onything;  and,  Steenie,  this  receipt" — his  hand  shook  while 
he  held  it  out — "  it  's  but  a  queer  kind  of  document,  and  we 
will  do  best,  I  think,  to  put  it  quietly  in  the  fire." 

"  Od,  but  for  as  queer  as  it  is,  it  's  a'  the  voucher  I  have 
for  my  rent,"  said  my  gudesire,  who  was  afraid,  it  may  be, 
of  losing  the  benefit  of  Sir  Robert's  discharge. 

"  I  will  bear  the  contents  to  your  credit  in  the  rental- 
book,  and  give  you  a  discharge  under  my  own  hand,"  said 
Sir  John,  "  and  that  on  the  spot.  And,  Steenie,  if  you  can 
hold  your  tongue  about  this  matter,  you  shall  sit,  from  this 
time  downward,  at  an  easier  rent." 

"  Mony  thanks  to  your  honour,"  said  Steenie,  who  saw 
easily  in  what  corner  the  wind  was;  "doubtless  I  will  be 
conformable  to  all  your  honour's  commands;  only  I  would 
willingly  speak  wi'  some  powerful  minister  on  the  subject,  for 
I  do  not  like  the  sort  of  soumons  of  appointment  whilk  your 
honour's  father " 


WANDERING   WILLIE'S   TALE  277 

"  Do  not  call  the  phantom  my  father !  "  said  Sir  John,  in- 
terrupting him. 

"  Well  then,  the  thing  that  was  so  like  him,"  said  my 
gudesire;  "  he  spoke  of  my  coming  back  to  see  him  this  time 
twelvemonth,  and  it  's  a  weight  on  my  conscience." 

"  Aweel  then,"  said  Sir  John,  "  if  you  be  so  much  dis- 
tressed in  mind,  you  may  speak  to  our  minister  of  the 
parish ;  he  is  a  douce  man,  regards  the  honour  of  our  fam- 
ily, and  the  mair  that  he  may  look  for  some  patronage 
from  me." 

Wi'  that,  my  father  readily  agreed  that  the  receipt  should 
be  burned;  and  the  laird  threw  it  into  the  chimney  with  his 
ain  hand.  Burn  it  would  not  for  them,  though ;  but  away  it 
flew  up  the  lum,  wi'  a  lang  train  of  sparks  at  its  tail,  and  a 
hissing  noise  like  a  squib. 

My  gudesire  gaed  down  to  the  manse,  and  the  minister, 
when  he  had  heard  the  story,  said  it  was  his  real  opinion  that, 
though  my  gudesire  had  gane  very  far  in  tampering  with 
dangerous  matters,  yet  as  he  had  refused  the  devil's  arles  (for 
such  was  the  offer  of  meat  and  drink),  and  had  refused  to 
do  homage  by  piping  at  his  bidding,  he  hoped  that,  if  he  held 
a  circumspect  walk  hereafter,  Satan  could  take  little  advan- 
tage by  what  was  come  and  gane.  And,  indeed,  my  gudesire, 
of  his  ain  accord,  lang  forswore  baith  the  pipes  and  the 
brandy — it  was  not  even  till  the  year  was  out,  and  the  fatal 
day  past,  that  he  would  so  much  as  take  the  fiddle  or  drink 
usquebaugh  or  tippenny. 

Sir  John  made  up  his  story  about  the  jackanape  as  he 
iiked  himsell;  and  some  believe  till  this  day  there  was  no 
more  in  the  matter  than  the  filching  nature  of  the  brute. 
Indeed,  ye  '11  no  hinder  some  to  thread  that  it  was  nane  o' 
the  auld  Enemy  that  Dougal  and  Hutcheon  saw  in  the  laird's 
room,  but  only  that  wanchancie  creature  the  major,  capering 
on  the  coffin ;  and  that,  as  to  the  blawing  on  the  laird's  whis- 
tle that  was  heard  after  he  was  dead,  the  filthy  brute  could 
do  that  as  weel  as  the  laird  himsell,  if  not  better.  But 
Heaven  kens  the  truth,  whilk  first  came  out  by  the  minister's 
wife,  after  Sir  John  and  her  ain  gudeman  were  baith  in  the 
moulds.  And  then  my  gudesire,  wha  was  failed  in  his  limbs, 
but  not  in  his  judgment  or  memory — at  least  nothing  to  speak 
of — was  obliged  to  tell  the  real  narrative  to  his  freends,  for 


278      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

the  credit  of  his  good  name.  He  might  else  have  been  charged 
for  a  warlock/ 

The  shades  of  evening  were  growing  thicker  around  us 
as  my  conductor  finished  his  long  narrative  with  this  moral : 
"  You  see,  birkie,  it  is  nae  chancy  thing  to  tak'  a  stranger 
traveller  for  a  guide  when  you  are  in  an  uncouth  land." 

"  I  should  not  have  made  that  inference,"  said  I.  "  Your 
grandfather's  adventure  was  fortunate  for  himself,  whom  it 
saved  from  ruin  and  distress ;  and  fortunate  for  his  landlord." 

"  Ay,  but  they  had  baith  to  sup  the  sauce  o'  't  sooner  or 
later,"  said  Wandering  Willie ;  "  what  was  f risted  wasna  for- 
given. Sir  John  died  before  he  was  much  over  threescore; 
and  it  was  just  like  of  a  moment's  illness.  And  for  my  gude- 
sire,  though  he  departed  in  fulness  of  life,  yet  there  was  my 
father,  a  yauld  man  of  forty-five,  fell  down  betwixt  the  stilts 
of  his  plough,  and  rase 'never  again,  and  left  nae  bairn  but 
me,  a  puir,  sightless,  fatherless,  motherless  creature,  could 
neither  work  nor  want.  Things  gaed  weel  aneugh  at  first; 
for  Sir  Regwald  Redgauntlet,  the  only  son  of  Sir  John  and 
the  oye  of  auld  Sir  Robert,  and,  wae  's  me !  the  last  of  the 
honourable  house,  took  the  farm  aff  our  hands,  and  brought 
me  into  his  household  to  have  care  of  me.  My  head  never 
settled  since  I  lost  him;  and  if  I  say  another  word  about  it, 
deil  a  bar  will  I  have  the  heart  to  play  the  night.  Look  out, 
my  gentle  chap,"  he  resumed,  in  a  different  tone ;  "  ye  should 
see  the  lights  at  Brokenburn  Glen  by  this  time." 

'  I  have  heard  in  my  youth  some  such  wild  tale  as  that  placed 
in  the  mouth  of  the  blind  fiddler,  of  which,  I  think,  the  hero  was 
Sir  Robert  Grierson,  of  Lagg,  the  famous  persecutor.  But  the  be- 
lief was  general  throughout  Scotland  that  the  excessive  lamenta- 
tion over  the  loss  of  friends  disturbed  the  repose  of  the  dead,  and 
broke  even  the  rest  of  the  grave.  [This  note,  and  that  on  page  272, 
are  given  only  in  part,  on  account  of  their  length  and  because  they 
are  not  essential  to  the  narrative. —  Ed.] 


A   LIST    OF    REPRESENTATIVE    TALES    AND 
SHORT   STORIES 

XI 

1830  TO    1840: 

Le  Vase  Etrusque,  Prosper  Merimee  (1830). 

La  Partie  de  Trictrac,  Prosper  Merimee  (1830). 

El  Verdugo,  Honore  de  Balzac  (1830). 

Traits  and  Stories  of  the  Irish  Peasantry,  William  Carle- 

^  ton  (1830). 
Un  Episode  sous  la  Terreur,  Honore  de  Balzac  (1830). 
Une  Passion  dans  le  Desert,  Honore  de  Balzac  (1830). 
Adieu,  Honore  de  Balzac  (1830). 

Evenings  at  the  Farm  of  Dikanka,  N.  V.  Gogol  (1831). 
Legends  and  Stories  of  Ireland,  Samuel  Lover  (1831). 
Jesus-Christ  en  Flandre,  Honore  de  Balzac  (1831). 
Le  Chef  d'CEuvre  Inconnu,  Honore  de  Balzac  (1831). 
Le  Requisitionnaire,  Honore  de  Balzac  (1831). 
The  Gentle  Boy,  Nathaniel  Hawthorne   (1832). 
La^  Grande  Breteche,  Honore  de  Balzac  (1832). 
Coptes  Drolatiques,  Honore  de  Balzac  (1832- 1833- 1837). 
MS.  Found  in  a  Bottle,  Edgar  A.  Poe  (1833). 
Le  Nid  de  Rossignols,  Theophile  Gautier  (1833). 
Les  Jeunes-France,  Theophile  Gautier  (1833). 
Mosa'ique,  Prosper  Merimee  (1833). 
Sketches  by  Boz,  Charles  Dickens  (1833-36). 
Mirgorod,  N.  V.  Gogol  (1834). 

Les  Ames  du  Purgatoire,  Prosper  Merimee  (1834). 
Omphale,  Theophile  Gautier  (1834). 
The  Queen  of  Spades,  Alexander  Poushkin  (1834). 
The  Pistol-Shot,  Alexander  Poushkin  (1834?). 
The  Snow-Storm,  Alexander  Poushkin  (1834?). 
Tales  of  the  Border;  J.  M.  Wilson,  and  others  (1834-69). 

279 


28o  THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

Berenice,  Edgar  A.  Poe  (1835). 
The  Ambitious  Guest,  Nathaniel  Hawthorne  (1835). 
Un  Drame  au  Bord  de  la  Mer,  Honore  de  Balzac   (1835). 
Grandeur  et  Servitude  Militaires,  Alfred  de  Vigny   (1835). 
Eventyr  og  Historier,  Hans  C.  Andersen   (1835-72). 
La  Morte   Amoureuse,   Theophile  Gautier    (1836). 
Ld  Messe  de  I'Athee,  Honore  de  Balzac   (1836). 
Emmeline,  Alfred  de  Musset  (1837). 
Deux  Maitresses,  Alfred  de  Musset   (1837). 
JTvvice-Told   Tales,    Nathaniel   Hawthorne    (1837). 
La  Venus  d'llle,  Prosper  Merimee  (1837). 
tine   Nuit  de  Cleopatre,  Theophile   Gautier    (1838). 
Frederic  et  Bernerette,  Alfred  de  Musset   (1838). 
Lady  Eleanore's  Alantle,  Nathaniel  Hawthorne   (1838). 
Le  Fils  du  Titien,  Alfred  de  Musset   (1838). 
Ligeia,  Edgar  A.  Poe   (1838). 
Mary  Ancel,  W.  M.  Thackeray   (1838). 
The  Avenger,  Thomas  De  Quincey    (1838). 
Gockel,   Hinkel   und   Gackeleia;   Clemens   Brentano    (1838). 
Des  Lebens  Uberfluss,  J.  L.  Tieck   (1839). 
Croisilles,  Alfred  de  Musset   (1839). 
Le  Paratonnere,  Charles  de  Bernard  (1839). 
Le  Pied  d'Argile,  Charles  de  Bernard  (1839?). 
Stubb's  Calendar,  W.  M.  Thackeray   (1839). 
La  Toison  d'Or,  Theophile  Gautier  (1839). 
The  Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher,  Edgar  A.  Poe  (1839). 


THE   TAKING   OF  THE    REDOUBT 


19 


THE  TAKING  OF  THE  REDOUBT 

The  /Taking  of  the  Redoubt,  written  by  Prosper 
Merimee  (1803-1870)  in  1829,  was  first  published  in  the 
September-October  Revue  Frangaise  of  that  year.  It  was 
his  third  Short  Story.  Previous  to  its  pubHcation,  in  the 
same  year,  Mateo  Falcone  and  The  Vision  of  Charles  XL 
had  appeared ;  and  these  three  were  followed  before  the 
year's  end  by  Tamango,  Federigo,  The  Pearl  of  Toledo, 
and  The  Etruscan  Vase,  the  last  being  published  in  Janu- 
ary, 1830.  From  1830  till  1846  hardly  a  year  passed 
that  Merimee  did  not  write  one  or  more  of  those  short 
masterpieces  that  are  still  unsurpassed  in  French  fiction, 
or  indeed  in  French  prose.  It  should  be  noted,  more- 
over, that  Merimee  is  a  master  of  the  simple  style  of 
writing,  as  Gautier  is  of  the  ornate. 

In  addition  to  the  stories  already  mentioned,  espe- 
cially noteworthy  are:  The  Double  Misunderstanding 
(1833),  The  Venus  of  Ille  (1837),  Arsene  Guillot 
(1844),  and  Carmen  (1845);  but  these  are  compara- 
tively long  stories.  After  the  publication  of  The  Abbe 
Aubain  in  1846,  Merimee  wrote  no  more  fiction  for 
nearly  a  quarter  of  a  century.  Lokis,  his  last  story,  ap- 
peared in  1869,  and  is  fully  up  to  the  standard  of  his 
earlier  work. 

Merimee's  most  salient  external  characteristic  is  per- 
haps his  elimination  of  the  non-essential ;  or,  as  Walter 
Pater  expresses  it,  "  Merimee's  superb  self-effacement, 
his  impersonality,  is  itself  but  an  effective  personal  trait, 
and,  transferred  to  art,  becomes  a  markedly  peculiar  qual- 
ity of  literary  beauty."  Of  Merimee's  passion  for  elimi- 
nation, for  compression.  The  Taking  of  the  Redoubt  is 

283 


284      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

one  of  tlie  best  examples.  As  Benjamin  W.  Wells  has 
said,  and  other  critics  have  not  failed  to  remark :  "  It 
takes  us  in  ten  pages  close  up  to  the  cannon's  mouth 
with  a  restrained  concision  that  makes  it  almost  a  perfect 
model  of  the  Short  Story." 

The  present  version  of  The  Taking  of  the  Redoubt  is 
that  by  George  Burnham  Ives,  in  the  Merimee  volume 
of  the  Little  French  Masterpieces  series. 

AUTHORITIES : 

Miscellaneous  Studies,  by  Walter  Pater. 

A  Century  of  French  Fiction,  by  Benjamin  W.  Wells. 

Merimee  et  Ses  Amis,  by  Augustin  Filon ;  with  a  bib- 
liography of  Merimee's  complete  works,  by  le  Vicomte 
de  Spoelberch  de  Lovenjoul. 


THE   TAKING   OF  THE   REDOUBT 

A  military  friend  of  mine,  who  died  of  a  fever  in  Greece 
a  few  years  ago,  told  me  one  day  about  the  first  action  in 
which  he  took  part.  His  story  made  such  an  impression  on 
me  that  I  wrote  it  down  from  memory  as  soon  as  I  had  time. 
Here  it  is: 

I  joined  the  regiment  on  the  fourth  of  September,  in  the 
evening.  I  found  the  colonel  in  camp.  He  received  me  rather 
roughly ;  but  when  he  had  read  General  B 's  recommenda- 
tion, his  manner  changed  and  he  said  a  few  courteous  words 
to  me. 

1  was  presented  by  him  to  my  captain,  who  had  just  re- 
turned from  a  reconnaissance.  This  captain,  with  whom  I 
hardly  had  time  to  become  acquainted,  was  a  tall,  dark  man, 
with  a  harsh,  repellent  face.  He  had  been  a  private,  and  had 
won  his  epaulets  and  his  cross  on  the  battle-field.  His  voice, 
which  was  hoarse  and  weak,  contrasted  strangely  with  his 
almost  gigantic  stature.  I  was  told  that  he  owed  that  peculiar 
voice  to  a  bullet  which  had  passed  through  his  lungs  at  the 
battle  of  Jena. 

When  he  learned  that  I  was  fresh  from  the  school  at 
Fontainebleau,  he  made  a  wry  face  and  said: 

"  My  lieutenant  died  yesterday." 

I  understood  that  he  meant  to  imply :  "  You  ought  to  take 
his  place,  and  you  are  not  capable  of  it." 

A  sharp  retort  came  to  my  lips,  but  I  restrained  myself. 

The  moon  rose  behind  the  redoubt  of  Cheverino,  about 
two  gunshots  from  our  bivouac.  It  was  large  and  red,  as  it 
usually  is  when  it  rises.  But  on  that  evening  it  seemed  to 
me  of  extraordinary  size.  For  an  instant  the  redoubt  stood 
sharply  out  in  black  against  the  brilliant  disk  of  the  moon. 

285 


a: 


i^6  THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORV 

It  resembled  the  crater  of  a  volcano  at  the  instant  of  an 
eruption. 

An  old  soldier  beside  whom  I  happened  to  be,  remarked 
upon  the  colour  of  the  moon. 

"  It  is  very  red,"  said  he ;  "  that's  a  sign  that  it  will  cost 
us  dear  to  take  that  famous  redoubt !  " 

I  have  always  been  superstitious,  and  that  prophecy,  at 
that  particular  moment  especially,  affected  me.  I  lay  down, 
but  I  could  not  sleep.  I  rose  and  walked  about  for  some 
time,  watching  the  tremendously  long  line  of  camp-fires  that 
^overed  the  heights  above  the  village  of  Cheverino. 

When  I  thought  that  the  fresh,  sharp  night  air  had  cooled 
my  blood  sufficiently,  I  returned  to  the  fire ;  I  wrapped  myself 
carefully  in  my  cloak  and  closed  my  eyes,  hoping  not  to  open 
them  before  dawn.  But  sleep  refused  to  come.  Insensibly 
my  thoughts  took  a  gloomy  turn.  I  said  to  myself  that  I  had 
not  a  friend  among  the  hundred  thousand  men  who  covered 
that  plain.  If  I  were  wounded,  I  should  be  taken  to  a  hos- 
pital and  treated  roughly  by  ignorant  surgeons.  All  that 
I  had  heard  of  surgical  operations  came  to  my  mind.  My 
heart  beat  violently,  and  I  instinctively  arranged  my  handker- 
chief, and  the  wallet  that  I  had  in  my  breast  pocket,  as  a  sort 
of  cuirass.  I  was  worn  out  with  fatigue,  I  nodded  every  mo- 
ment, and  every  moment  some  sinister  thought  returned  with 
renewed  force  and  roused  me  with  a  start, 
r  But  weariness  carried  the  day,  and  when  they  beat  the 
'  reveille,  I  was  sound  asleep.  We  were  drawn  up  in  battle 
array,  the  roll  was  called,  then  we  stacked  arms,  and  every- 
thing indicated  that  we  were  to  have  a  quiet  day. 

About  three  o'clock  an  aide-de-camp  appeared,  bringing 
an  order.  We  were  ordered  under  arms  again ;  oiir  skir- 
mishers spread  out  over  the  plain ;  we  followed  them  slowly, 
and  after  about  twenty  minutes,  we  saw  all  the  advanced 
posts  of  the  Russians  fall  back  and  return  inside  the  re- 
/    doubt. 

A  battery  of  artillery  came  into  position  at  our  right,  an- 
other at  our  left,  but  both  well  in  advance  of  us.  They  began 
a  very  hot  fire  at  the  enemy,  who  replied  vigorously,  and 
the  redoubt  of  Cheverino  soon  disappeared  beneath  dense 
clouds  of  smoke. 

Our  regiment  was  almost  protected  from  the  Russian  fire 


THE  TAKING   OF  THE   REDOUBT  287 

by  a  rise  in  the  ground.  Their  balls,  which,  indeed,  were 
rarely  aimed  at  us,  for  they  preferred  to  fire  at  our  gunners, 
passed  over  our  heads,  or,  at  the  worst,  spattered  us  with  dirt 
and  small  stones. 

As  soon  as  we  received  the  order  to  advance,  my  captain     I 
looked  at  me  with  a  close  scrutiny  which  compelled  me  to 
run  my  hand  over  my  budding  mustache  twice  or  thrice,  as 
unconcernedly  as  I  could.     Indeed,  I  was  not  frightened,  and 
the  only^  fear  I  had  was  that  he  should  believe  that  I  was 
frightened.     Those  harmless  cannon-balls  helped  to  maintain 
me  in  my  heroically  calm  frame  of  mind.    My  self-esteem  told 
me  that  I  was  really  in  danger,  as  I  was  at  last  under  the    , 
fire  of  a  battery.     I  was  overjoyed  to  be  so  entirely  at  my^ 
ease,  and  I  thought  of  the  pleasure  I  should  take  in  telling  of 
the  capture    of   the   redoubt   of    Cheverino   in   Madame   de 
B 's  salon  on  Rue  de  Provence. 

The  colonel  passed  our  company;  he  spoke  to  me: 

"  Well,  you  are  going  to  see  some  sharp  work  for  your 
debut." 

I  smiled  with  an  altogether  martial  air  as  I  brushed  my 
coat-sleeve,  on  which  a  shot  that  struck  the  ground  thirty 
yards  away  had  spattered  a  little  dust. 

It  seems  that  the  Russians  observed  the  ill  success  of  their 
cannon-balls ;  for  they  replaced  them  with  shells,  which  could 
more  easily  be  made  to  reach  us  in  the  hollow  where  we  were 
posted,  A  large  piece  of  one  took  ofif  my  shako  and  killed  a 
man  near  me. 

"  I  congratulate  you,"  said  my  captain,  as  I  picked  up  my 
shako ;  "  you're  safe  now  for  to-day." 

I  was  acquainted  with  the  military  superstition  which  be- 
lieves that  the  axiom,  Non  bis  in  idem,  has  the  same  applica- 
tion on  a  field  of  battle  as  in  a  court  of  justice.  I  proudly 
replaced  my  shako  on  my  head. 

"  That  is  making  a  fellow  salute  rather  unceremoniously," 
I  said  as  gaily  as  I  could.  That  wretched  joke  was  considered 
first-rate,  in  view  of  the  circumstances. 

"  I  congratulate  you,"  continued  the  captain ;  "  you  will 
get  nothing  worse,  and  you  will  command  a  company  this 
evening;  for  I  feel  that  the  oven  is  being  heated  for  me. 
Every  time  that  I  have  been  wounded  the  officer  nearest  me 
has  been  hit  by  a  spent  ball ;  and,"  he  addvd  in  a  low  tone  and 


a88      THE'  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

almost  as  if  he  were  ashamed,  "  their  names  always  began 
with  a  P." 

I  feigned  incredulity;  many  men  would  have  done  the 
same ;  many  men  too  would  have  been,  as  I  was,  profoundly 
impressed  by  those  prophetic  words.  Conscript  as  I  was,  I 
realised  that  I  could  not  confide  my  sensations  to  any  one, 
and  that  I  must  always  appear  cool  and  fearless. 
r~  After  about  half  an  hour  the  Russian  fire  sensibly  dimin- 
ished ;  thereupon  we  left  our  sheltered  position  to  march  upon 
the  redoubt. 

Our  regiment  consisted  of  three  battalions.  The  second 
was  ordered  to  turn  the  redoubt  on  the  side  of  the  entrance ; 
the  other  two  were  to  make  the  assault.  I  was  in  the  third 
battalion. 

As  we  came  out  from  behind  the  species  of  ridge  which 
had  protected  us,  we  were  received  by  several  volleys  of  mus- 
ketry, which  did  little  damage  in  our  ranks.  The  whistling 
of  the  bullets  surprised  me ;  I  kept  turning  my  head,  and  thus 
induced  divers  jests  on  the  part  of  my  comrades,  who  were 
more  familiar  with  that  sound. 

"  Take  it  all  in  all,"  I  said  to  myself,  "  a  battle  isn't  such 
a  terrible  thing." 

We  advanced  at  the  double-quick,  preceded  by  skirmish- 
ers ;  suddenly  the  Russians  gave  three  hurrahs,  three  distinct 
hurrahs,  then  remained  silent  and  ceased  firing. 

"  I  don't  like  this  silence,"  said  my  captain ;  "  it  bodes  us 
no  good." 

I  considered  that  our  men  were  a  little  too  noisy,  and  I 
could  not  forbear  making  a  mental  comparison  between  their 
tumultuous  shouting  and  the  enemy's  impressive  silence. 

We  speedily  reached  the  foot  of  the  redoubt ;  the  palisades 
had  been  shattered  and  the  earth  torn  up  by  our  balls.  The 
soldiers  rushed  at  these  newly-made  ruins  with  shouts  of 
"Vive  VEmpereur! "  louder  than  one  would  have  expected 
to  hear  from  men  who  had  already  shouted  so  much. 
'  I  raised  my  eyes,  and  I  shall  never  forget  the  spectacle 
that  I  saw.  The  greater  part  of  the  smoke  had  risen,  and 
hung  like  a  canopy  about  twenty  feet  above  the  redoubt. 
Through  a  bluish  haze  one  could  see  the  Russian  grenadiers 
behind  their  half-destroyed  parapet,  with  arms  raised,  mo- 
tionless as  statues,    It  seems  to  me  that  I  can  see  now  each 


r 


THE  TAKING  OF  TttE  REDOUBT  ^89 

soldier,  with  his  left  eye  fastened  upon  us,  th,e  right  hidden 
by  the  levelled  musket.  In  an  embrasure,  a  few  yards  away, 
a  man  stood  beside  a  cannon,  holding  a  fusee. 

I  shuddered,  and  I  thought  that  my  last  hour  had  come. 

"  The  dance  is  going  to  begin,"  cried  my  captain.  "  Bon- 
soir !  " 

Those  were  the  last  words  I  heard  him  utter. 

The  drums  rolled  inside  the  redoubt.  I  saw  all  the  muskets 
drop.  I  closed  my  eyes,  and  I  heard  a  most  appalling  crash, 
followed  by  shrieks  and  groans.  I  opened  my  eyes,  surprised 
to  find  myself  still  among  the  living.  The  redoubt  was  filled 
with  smoke  once  more.  I  was  surrounded  by  dead  and 
wounded.  My  captain  lay  at  my  feet;  his  head  had  been 
shattered  by  a  cannon-ball,  and  I  was  covered  with  his  brains 
and  his  blood.  Of  all  my  company  only  six  men  and  myself 
were  left  on  our  feet. 

This  carnage  was  succeeded  by  a  moment  of  stupefaction. 
The  colonel,  placing  his  hat  on  the  point  of  his  sword,  was 
the  first  to  scale  the  parapet,  shouting  "  Vive  I'Empereur !  '* 
He  was  followed  instantly  by  all  the  survivors.  I  have  a  very'^ 
dim  remembrance  of  what  followed.  We  entered  the  redoubt; 
how,  I  have  no  idea.  We  fought  hand  to  hand,  amid  smoke 
so  dense  that  we  could  not  see  one  another.  I  believe  that  I 
struck,  for  my  sabre  was  all  bloody.  At  last  I  heard  shouts 
of  "  Victory !  "  and  as  the  smoke  grew  less  dense,  I  saw 
blood  and  corpses  completely  covering  the  surface  of  the  re- 
doubt. The  guns  especially  were  buried  beneath  piles  of  , 
bodies.  About  two  hundred  men,  in  the  French  uniform, 
were  standing  about  in  groups,  with  no  pretence  of  order, 
some  loading  their  muskets,  others  wiping  their  bayonets. 
Eleven  hundred  Russian  prisoners  were  with  them. 

The  colonel,  covered  with  blood,  was  lying  on  a  shattered 
caisson  near  the  ravine.  A  number  of  soldiers  were  bustling 
about  him.    I  approached. 

"  Where  is  the  senior  captain  ?  "  he  asked  a  sergeant. 

The  sergeant  shrugged  his  shoulders  most  expressively. 

"  And  the  senior  lieutenant  ?  " 

"  Monsieur  here,  who  arrived  last  night,"  said  the  ser- 
geant, in  a  perfectly  matter-of-fact  tone. 

The  colonel  smiled  bitterly. 

"  Well,  monsieur,"  he  said,  "  you  command  in  chief ;  order 


2go  THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

the  entrance  to  the  redoubt  to  be  strengthened  with  these 
waggons,  for  the  enemy  is  in  force ;  but  General  C — —  will 
see  that  you  are  supported." 

"  Colonel,"  I  said,  "  are  you  severely  wounded  ?  " 
"  Finished,  my  boy,  but  the  redoubt  is  taken ! " 


A   LIST   OF   REPRESENTATIVE    TALES    AND 
SHORT   STORIES 

XII 

1840   TO    1850: 

Pierre  Grassou,  Honore  de  Balzac  (1840). 
Tales  of  the  Grotesque  and  Arabesque,  Edgar  A.  Poe  (1840). 
The  Bedford  Row  Conspiracy,  W.  M.  Thackeray  (1840). 
The  Murders  in  the  Rue  Morgue,  Edgar  A.  Poe  (1841). 
Nouvelles  Genevoises,  Rodolphe  Toepffer  (1841). 
The  Masque  of  the  Red  Death,  Edgar  A.  Poe  (1842). 
Twice-Told  Tales  (2d  series),  Nathaniel  Hawthorne  (1842). 
Schwarzwalder  Dorfgeschichten,  B.  Auerbach  (1843). 
The  Pit  and  the  Pendulum,  Edgar  A.  Poe  (1843). 
A  Christmas  Carol,  Charles  Dickens  (1843). 
The  Gold-Bug,  Edgar  A.  Poe  (1843). 
The  Birthmark,  Nathaniel  Hawthorne  (1843). 
Tresor  des  Feves  et  Fleur  des  Pois,  Charles  Nodier  (1844). 
Carmen,  Prosper  Merimee  (1845). 
The  Purloined  Letter,  Edgar  A.  Poe  (1845). 
The  Chimes,  Charles  Dickens  (1845). 
Nouvelles,  Theophile  Gautier    (1845). 
The  Cricket  on  the  Hearth,  Charles  Dickens  (1845). 
L'Abbe  Aubain,  Prosper  Merimee  (1846). 
The  Cask  of  Amontillado,  Edgar  A.  Poe  (1846). 
La  Mare  au  Diable,  George  Sand  (1846). 
Mosses  from  an  Old  Manse,  Nathaniel  Hawthorne  (1846). 
Phil  Fogarty,  W.  M.  Thackeray  (1847). 
Le  Roi  Candaule,  Theophile  Gautier  (1847). 
Mrs.  Perkins's  Ball,  W.  M.  Thackeray  (1847). 
Gamle  Hans  Grenader,  Jorgen  Moe  (before  1853). 

991 


LA   GRANDE   BRETECHE 


LA  GRANDE  BRETECHE 

La  Grande  Breteche,  by  Honore  de  Balzac  (1799- 
1850),  was  first  published  in  the  second  edition  of  his 
Scenes  of  Private  Life,  a  subdivision  of  that  portion  of 
The  Human  Comedy  called  Studies  of  Manners,  in  1832, 
under  the  title.  The  Council.  Under  that  heading  was 
also  grouped  The  Message.  Later,  La  Grande  Breteche 
appeared  with  the  subtitle,  Conclusion  of  Another  Study 
of  Woman.  In  the  Edition  Definitive  of  Balzac's  works 
La  Grande  Breteche  was  merged  in  Another  Study  of 
Woman,  and  its  distinctive  title  disappeared  altogether. 
Among  the  best  of  Balzac's  Short  Stories  may  be  men- 
tioned: Adieu  (1830),  A  Passion  in  the  Desert  (1830), 
An  Episode  Under  the  Terror  (1830),  The  Unknown 
Masterpiece  (1831),  The  Conscript  (1831),  La  Grande 
Breteche  (1832),  A  Seashore  Drama  (1835),  The  Suc- 
cuba   (Contes  Drolatiques:   1832-1833-1837). 

It  may  be  noted  that,  though  Balzac  is  primarily  a 
great  French  novelist,  the  best  of  his  Short  Stories  are 
of  the  very  first  rank ;  unfortunately  for  them,  they  have 
been  unduly  overshadowed  by  his  longer  works  of  fic- 
tion. No  other  French  writer,  unless  it  be  Merimee  or 
Maupassant,  has  written  so  many  Short  Stories  of  a  high 
degree  of  excellence. 

La  Grande  Breteche  is  one  of  the  best-known  of  Bal- 
zac's short  pieces  of  fiction,  and  deservedly  so;  it  takes 
rank  among  his  half-dozen  best  of  all.  Contrary  to  a 
practice  in  which  he  was  too  prone  to  indulge,  he  is  here 
not  long  in  "  getting  under  way,"  as  George  Saintsbury 
has  remarked,  and  he  does  not  waste  a  single  stroke  in 
drawing  the  dramatic  close.      "  Indeed,  the  piece  is  so 

295 


296      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

short  and  so  good  that  critical  dwelling  on  it  is  almost  an 
impertinence."  As  another  critic,  William  P.  Trent,  has 
said :  **  This  story  of  a  jealous  husband's  walling  up  his 
wife's  lover  in  a  closet  of  her  chamber  is  as  dramatic  a 
piece  of  writing  as  Balzac  ever  did,  and  is  almost  if  not 
quite  as  perfect  a  Short  Story  as  any  that  has  since  been 
written  in  France."  In  his  short  fictions,  Balzac  avoids 
many  of  the  faults  of  his  longer  works. 

The  present  version  of  La  Grande  Breteche  is  that  by 
George  Burnham  Ives,  in  the  Balzac  volume  of  the  Little 
French  Masterpieces  series. 

AUTHORITIES  I 

A  Century  of  French  Fiction,  by  Benjamin  W.  Wells. 

Honore  de  Balzac,  by  Ferdinand  Brunetiere  (Little 
French  Masterpieces  series). 

French  Poets  and  Novelists,  by  Henry  James. 

Honore  de  Balzac,  by  Ferdinand  Brunetiere  (French 
Men  of  Letters  series). 


LA   GRANDE    BRETECHE 

About  one  hundred  yards  from  Vendome,  on  the  banks 
of  the  Loire,  there  stands  an  old  dark-coloured  house,  sur- 
mounted by  a  very  high  roof,  and  so  completely  isolated  that 
there  is  not  in  the  neighbourhood  a  single  evil-smelling  tan- 
nery or  wretched  inn,  such  as  we  see  in  the  outskirts  of  almost 
every  small  town.  In  front  of  the  house  is  a  small  garden 
bordering  the  river,  in  which  the  boxwood  borders  of  the 
paths,  once  neatly  trimmed,  now  grow  at  their  pleasure.  A 
few  willows,  born  in  the  Loire,  have  grown  as  rapidly  as  the 
hedge  which  encloses  the  garden,  and  half  conceal  the  house. 
The  plants- which  we  call  weeds  adorn  the  slope  of  the  bank 
with  their  luxuriant  vegetation.  The  fruit-trees,  neglected 
for  ten  years,  bear  no  fruit;  their  offshoots  form  a  dense 
undergrowth.  The  espaliers  resemble  hornbeam  hedges.  The 
paths,  formerly  gravelled,  are  overrun  with  purslane;  but, 
to  tell  the  truth,  there  are  no  well-marked  paths.  From  the 
top  of  the  mountain  upon  which  hang  the  ruins  of  the  old 
chateau  of  the  Dukes  of  Vendome,  the  only  spot  from  which 
the  eye  can  look  into  this  enclosure,  you  would  say  to  yourself 
that,  at  a  period  which  it  is  difficult  to  determine,  that  little 
nook  was  the  delight  of  some  gentleman  devoted  to  roses 
and  tulips,  to  horticulture  in  short,  but  especially  fond  of 
fine  fruit.  You  espy  an  arbour,  or  rather  the  ruins  of  an 
arbour,  beneath  which  a  table  still  stands,  not  yet  entirely 
consumed  by  time.  At  sight  of  that  garden,  which  is  no 
longer  a  garden,  one  may  divine  the  negative  delights  of  the 
peaceful  life  which  provincials  lead,  as  one  divines  the  exist- 
ence of  a  worthy  tradesman  by  reading  the  epitaph  on  his 
tombstone.  To  round  out  the  melancholy  yet  soothing 
thoughts  which  fill  the  mind,  there  is  on  one  of  the  walls  a 
sun-dial,  embellished  with  this  commonplace  Christian  in- 
scription :  ULTIMAM  coGiTA.  The  roof  of  the  house  is  terribly 
20  a97 


298      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

dilapidated,  the  blinds  are  always  drawn,  the  balconies  are 
covered  with  swallow's-nests,  the  doors  are  never  opened. 
Tall  weeds  mark  with  green  lines  the  cracks  in  the  steps ;  the 
ironwork  is  covered  with  rust.  Moon,  sun,  winter,  summer, 
snow,  have  rotted  the  wood,  warped  the  boards,  and  corroded 
the  paint. 

The  deathly  silence  which  reigns  there  is  disturbed  only 
by  the  birds,  the  cats,  the  martens,  the  rats  and  the  mice, 
which  are  at  liberty  to  run  about,  to  fight,  and  to  eat  one  an- 
other at  their  will.  An  invisible  hand  has  written  everywhere 
the  word  mystery.  If,  impelled  by  curiosity,  you  should  go  to 
inspect  the  house  on  the  street  side,  you  would  see  a  high 
gate,  arched  at  the  top,  in  which  the  children  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood have  made  numberless  holes.  I  learned  later  that 
that  gate  had  been  condemned  ten  years  before.  Through 
these  irregular  breaches  you  would  be  able  to  observe  the 
perfect  harmony  between  the  garden  front  and  the  court- 
yard front.  The  same  disorder  reigns  supreme  in  both. 
Tufts  of  weeds  surround  the  pavements.  Enormous  cracks 
furrow  the  walls,  whose  blackened  tops  are  enlaced  by  the 
countless  tendrils  of  climbing  plants.  The  steps  are  wrenched 
apart,  the  bell-rope  is  rotten,  the  gutters  are  broken.  "  What 
fire  from  heaven  has  passed  this  way?  What  tribunal  has 
ordered  salt  to  be  strewn  upon  this  dwelling  ?  Has  God  been 
insulted  here?  Has  France  been  betrayed ? "  Such  are 
the  questions  which  one  asks  one's  self.  The  reptiles  crawl 
hither  and  thither  without  answering.  That  empty  and  de- 
serted house  is  an  immense  riddle,  the  solution  of  which  is 
known  to  no  one. 

It  was  formerly  a  small  feudal  estate  and  bore  the  name 
of  La  Grande  Breteche.  During  my  stay  at  Vendome, 
where  Desplein  had  left  me  to  attend  a  rich  patient, 
the  aspect  of  that  strange  building  became  one  of  my 
keenest  pleasures.  Was  it  not  more  than  a  mere  ruin? 
Some  souvenirs  of  undeniable  authenticity  are  always  con- 
nected with  a  ruin ;  but  that  abode,  still  standing,  although  in 
process  of  gradual  demolition  by  an  avenging  hand,  con- 
cealed a  secret,  an  unknown  thought;  at  the  very  least,  it 
betrayed  a  caprice.  More  than  once,  in  the  evening,  I  wan- 
dered in  the  direction  of  the  hedge,  now  wild  and  uncared  for, 
which  surrounded  that  enclosure.     I  defied  scratches,  and 


LA  GRANDE  BRETeCHE  299 

made  my  way  into  that  ownerless  garden,  that  estate  which 
was  neither  pubHc  nor  private;  and  I  remained  whole  hours 
there  contemplating  its  disarray.  Not  even  to  learn  the  story 
which  would  doubtless  account  for  that  extraordinary  spec- 
tacle, would  I  have  asked  a  single  question  of  any  Vendomese 
gossip.  Straying  about  there,  I  composed  delightful  ro- 
mances, I  abandoned  myself  to  little  orgies  of  melancholy 
which  enchanted  me. 

If  I  had  learned  the  cause  of  that  perhaps  most 
commonplace  neglect,  I  should  have  lost  the  unspoken 
poesy  with  which  I  intoxicated  myself.  To  me  that  spot 
represented  the  most  diverse  images  of  human  life  dark- 
ened by  its  misfortunes;  now  it  was  the  air  of  the  cloister, 
minus  the  monks;  again,  the  perfect  peace  of  the  cemetery, 
minus  the  dead  speaking  their  epitaphic  language ;  to-day,  the 
house  of  the  leper ;  to-morrow,  that  of  the  Fates ;  but  it  was, 
above  all,  the  image  of  the  province,  with  its  meditation,  with 
its  hour-glass  life.  I  have  often  wept  there,  but  never 
laughed.  More  than  once  I  have  felt  an  involuntary  terror, 
as  I  heard  above  my  head  the  low  rustling  made  by  the  wings 
of  some  hurrying  dove.  The  ground  is  damp ;  you  must  be- 
ware of  lizards,  snakes,  and  toads,  which  wander  about  there 
with  the  fearless  liberty  of  nature;  above  all,  you  must  not 
fear  the  cold,  for,  after  a  few  seconds,  you  feel  an  icy  cloak 
resting  upon  your  shoulders,  like  the  hand  of  the  Commenda- 
tor  on  the  neck  of  Don  Juan.  One  evening  I  had  shuddered 
there;  the  wind  had  twisted  an  old  rusty  weather-vane,  whose 
shrieks  resembled  a  groan  uttered  by  the  house  at  the  mo- 
ment that  I  was  finishing  a  rather  dismal  melodrama,  by 
which  I  sought  to  explain  to  myself  that  species  of  monu- 
mental grief.  I  returned  to  my  inn,  beset  by  sombre  thoughts. 
When  I  had  supped,  my  hostess  entered  my  roOm  with  a 
mysterious  air,  and  said  to  me : 

"  Here  is  Monsieur  Regnault,  monsieur." 

"Who  is  Monsieur  Regnault?" 

"What!  monsieur  doesn't  know  Monsieur  Regnault? 
That's  funny !  "  she  said,  as  she  left  the  room. 

Suddenly  I  saw  a  tall  slender  man,  dressed  in  black,  with 
his  hat  in  his  hand,  who  entered  the  room  like  a  ram  ready 
to  rush  at  his  rival,  disclosing  a  retreating  forehead,  a  small 
pointed  head,  and  a  pale  face,  not  unlike  a  glass  of  dirty 


300      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

water.  You  would  have  said  that  he  was  the  doorkeeper  of 
some  minister.  He  wore  an  old  coat,  threadbare  at  the 
seams ;  but  he  had  a  diamond  in  his  shirt-frill  and  gold  rings 
in  his  ears. 

"  To  whom  have  I  the  honour  of  speaking,  monsieur  ?  " 
I  asked  him. 

He  took  a  chair,  seated  himself  in  front  of  my  fire,  placed 
his  hat  on  my  table,  and  replied,  rubbing  his  hands: 

"  Ah  !  it's  very  cold !  I  am  Monsieur  Regnault,  mon- 
sieur." 

I  bowed,  saying  to  myself : 

"  //  Bondocani!    Look  for  him  !  " 

"  I  am  the  notary  at  Vendome,"  he  continued. 

"  I  am  delighted  to  hear  it,  monsieur,"  I  exclaimed,  "  but 
I  am  not  ready  to  make  my  will,  for  reasons  best  known  to 
myself." 

"  Just  a  minute,"  he  rejoined,  raising  his  hand  as  if  to 
impose  silence  upon  me.  "  I  beg  pardon,  monsieur,  I  beg 
pardon !  I  have  heard  that  you  go  to  walk  sometimes  in 
the  garden  of  La  Grande  Breteche." 

"  Yes,  monsieur  !  " 

"Just  a  minute,"  he  said,  repeating  his  gesture;  "that 
practice  constitutes  a  downright  trespass.  I  have  come,  mon- 
sieur, in  the  name  and  as  executor  of  the  late  Madame 
Countess  de  Merret,  to  beg  you  to  discontinue  your  visits. 
Just  a  minute !  I'm  not  a  Turk,  and  I  don't  propose  to 
charge  you  with  a  crime.  Besides,  it  may  well  be  that  you 
are  not  aware  of  the  circumstances  which  compel  me  to 
allow  the  finest  mansion  in  Vendome  to  fall  to  ruin.  How- 
ever, monsieur,  you  seem  to  be  a  man  of  education,  and  you 
must  know  that  the  law  forbids  entrance  upon  an  enclosed 
estate  under  severe  penalties.  A  hedge  is  as  good  as  a  wall. 
But  the  present  condition  of  the  house  may  serve  as  an 
excuse  for  your  curiosity.  I  would  ask  nothing  better  than 
to  allow  you  to  go  and  come  as  you  please  in  that  house ;  but, 
as  it  is  my  duty  to  carry  out  the  will  of  the  testatrix,  I  have 
the  honour,  monsieur,  to  request  you  not  to  go  into  that  gar- 
den again.  Even  I  myself,  monsieur,  since  the  opening  of 
the  will,  have  never  set  foot  inside  that  house,  which,  as  I 
have  had  the  honour  to  tell  you,  is  a  part  of  the  estate  of 
Madame   de   Merret.     We   simply   reported   the  number  of 


LA  GRANDE   BRETECHE  3°! 

doors  and  windows,  in  order  to  fix  the  amount  of  the  im- 
post which  I  pay  annually  from  the  fund  set  aside  for  that 
purpose  by  the  late  countess.  Ah  !  her  will  made  a  great  deal 
of  talk  in  Vendome,  monsieur." 

At  that,  he  stopped  to  blow  his  nose,  the  excellent  man. 
I  respected  his  loquacity,  understanding  perfectly  that^  the 
administration  of  Madame  de  Merret's  property  was  the  im- 
portant event  of  his  life — his  reputation,  his  glory,  his  Resto- 
ration. I  ^must  needs  bid  adieu  to  my  pleasant  reveries,  to 
my  romances ;  so  that  I  was  not  inclined  to  scorn  the  pleasure 
of  learning  the  truth  from  an  official  source. 

"  Would  it  be  indiscreet,  monsieur,"  I  asked  him,  "  to  ask 
you  the  reason  of  this  extraordinary  state  of  affairs  ?  " 

At  that  question  an  expression  which  betrayed  all  the 
pleasure  that  a  man  feels  who  is  accustomed  to  ride  a  hobby 
passed  over  the  notary's  face.  He  pulled  up  his  shirt 
collar  with  a  self-satisfied  air,  produced  his  snuff-box,  opened 
it,  offered  it  to  me,  and  at  my  refusal,  took  a  famous  pinch 
himself.  He  was  happy;  the  man  who  has  no  hobby  has 
no  idea  of  the  satisfaction  that  can  be  derived  from  life. 
A  hobby  is  the  precise  mean  between  passion  and  mono- 
mania. At  that  moment  I  understood  the  witty  expression 
of  Sterne  in  all  its  extent,  and  I  had  a  perfect  conception  of 
the  joy  with  which  Uncle  Toby,  with  Trim's  assistance,  be- 
strode his  battle-horse. 

"  Monsieur,"  said  Monsieur  Regnault,  "  I  was  chief  clerk 
to  Master  Roguin  of  Paris.  An  excellent  office,  of  which 
you  may  have  heard?  No?  Why,  it  was  made  famous  by 
a  disastrous  failure.  Not  having  sufficient  money  to  prac- 
tise in  Paris,  at  the  price  to  which  offices  had  risen  in  1816, 
I  came  here  and  bought  the  office  of  my  predecessor.  I  had 
relatives  in  Vendome,  among  others  a  very  rich  aunt,  who 
gave  me  her  daughter  in  marriage.  Monsieur,"  he  contin- 
ued after  a  brief  pause,  "  three  months  after  being  licensed 
by  the  Keeper  of  the  Seals  I  was  sent  for  one  evening,  just 
as  I  was  going  to  bed  (I  was  not  then  married),  by  Madame 
Countess  de  Merret,  to  come  to  her  Chateau  de  Merret. 
Her  maid,  an  excellent  girl  who  works  in  this  inn  to-day,  was 
at  my  door  with  madame  countess's  carriage.  But,  just 
a  minute !  I  must  tell  you,  monsieur,  that  Monsieur  Count 
de  Merret  had  gone  to  Paris  to  die,  two  months  before  I  came 


302      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

here.  He  died  miserably  there,  abandoning  himself  to  ex- 
cesses of  all  sorts.  You  understand? — On  the  day  of  his  de- 
parture madame  countess  had  left  La  Grande  Breteche  and 
had  dismantled  it.  Indeed,  some  people  declare  that  she 
burned  the  furniture  and  hangings,  and  all  chattels  whatso- 
ever now  contained  in  the  estate  leased  by  the  said —  What 
on  earth  am  I  saying  ?  I  beg  pardon,  I  thought  I  was  dictating 
a  lease. — That  she  burned  them,"  he  continued,  "  in  the  fields 
at  Merret.  Have  you  been  to  Merret,  monsieur  ?  No  ?  "  he 
said,  answering  his  own  question.  "  Ah !  that  is  a  lovely 
spot !  For  about  three  months/'  he  continued,  after  a  slight 
shake  of  the  head,  "monsieur  count  and  madame  countess 
led  a  strange  life. 

"  They  received  no  guests ;  madame  lived  on  the 
ground  floor,  and  monsieur  on  the  first  floor.  When 
madame  countess  was  left  alone,  she  never  appeared  ex- 
cept at  church.  Later,  in  her  own  house,  at  her  chateau, 
she  refused  to  see  the  friends  who  came  to  see  her.  She 
was  already  much  changed  when  she  left  La  Grande  Breteche 
to  go  to  Merret.  The  dear  woman — I  say  *  dear,'  because 
this  diamond  came  from  her;  but  I  actually  only  saw  her 
once — the  excellent  lady,  then,  was  very  ill;  she  had  doubt- 
less despaired  of  her  health,  for  she  died  without  calling 
a  doctor;  so  that  many  of  our  ladies  thought  that  she  was 
not  in  full  possession  of  her  wits.  My  curiosity  was  there- 
fore strangely  aroused,  monsieur,  when  I  learned  that 
Madame  de  Merret  needed  my  services.  I  was  not  the  only 
one  who  took  an  interest  in  that  story.  That  same  evening, 
although  it  was  late,  the  whole  town  knew  that  I  had  gone 
to  Merret.  The  maid  answered  rather  vaguely  the  questions 
that  I  asked  her  on  the  road ;  she  told  me,  however,  that  her 
mistress  had  received  the  sacrament  from  the  cure  of  Merret 
during  the  day,  and  that  she  did  not  seem  likely  to  live 
through  the  night. 

"  I  reached  the  chateau  about  eleven  o'clock ;  I  mounted 
the  main  staircase.  After  passing  through  divers  large 
rooms,  high  and  dark,  and  as  cold  and  damp  as  the  devil, 
I  reached  the  state  bedchamber  where  the  countess  was. 
According  to  the  reports  that  were  current  concerning  that 
lady — I  should  never  end,  monsieur,  if  I  should  repeat  all 
the  stories  that  are  told  about  her — I  had  thought  of  her  as 


LA  GRANDE  BkETECME  3C>3 

a  coquette.  But,  if  you  please,  I  had  much  difficulty  in  find- 
ing her  in  the  huge  bed  in  which  she  lay.  To  be  sure,  to 
light  that  enormous  wainscoted  chamber  of  the  old  regime, 
where  everything  was  so  covered  with  dust  that  it  made  one 
sneeze  simply  to  look  at  it,  she  had  only  one  of  those  old- 
fashioned  Argand  lamps.  Ah  !  but  you  have  never  been  to 
Merret.  Well,  monsieur,  the  bed  is  one  of  those  beds  of  the 
olden  time,  with  a  high  canopy  of  flowered  material.  A 
small  ni^ht-table  stood  beside  the  bed,  and  I  saw  upon  it  a 
copy  of  the  Imitation  of  Jesus  Christ,  which,  by  the  by,  I 
bought  for  my  wife,  as  well  as  the  lamp.  There  was  also  a 
large  couch  for  the  attendant,  and  two  chairs.  Not  a  spark 
of  fire.  That  was  all  the  furniture.  It  wouldn't  have  filled 
ten  lines  in  an  inventory. 

"  Oh  !  my  dear  monsieur,  if  you  had  seen,  as  I  then  saw 
it,  that  huge  room  hung  with  dark  tapestry,  you  would  have 
imagined  yourself  transported  into  a  genuine  scene  from 
a  novel.  It  was  icy  cold;  and,  more  than  that,  absolutely 
funereal,"  he  added,  raising  his  arm  with  a  theatrical  ges- 
ture and  pausing  for  a  moment.  "  By  looking  hard  and 
walking  close  to  the  bed,  I  succeeded  in  discovering  Madame 
de  Merret,  thanks  to  the  lamp,  the  light  of  which  shone 
upon  the  pillow.  Her  face  was  as  yellow  as  wax,  and  re- 
sembled two  clasped  hands.  She  wore  a  lace  cap,  which 
revealed  her  lovely  hair,  as  white  as  snow.  She  was  sitting 
up,  and  seemed  to  retain  that  position  with  much  difficulty. 
Her  great  black  eyes,  dulled  by  fever  no  doubt,  and  already 
almost  lifeless,  hardly  moved  beneath  the  bones  which  the 
eyebrows  cover — these,"  he  said,  pointing  to  the  arch  over 
his  eyes. — "  Her  brow  was  moist.  Her  fleshless  hands  re- 
sembled bones  covered  with  tightly-drawn  skin ;  her  veins  and 
muscles  could  be  seen  perfectly.  She  must  have  been  very 
beautiful ;  but  at  that  moment  I  was  seized  with  an  indefinable 
feeling  at  her  aspect.  Never  before,  according  to  those  who 
laid  her  out,  had  a  living  creature  attained  such  thinness 
without  dying.  In  short,  she  was  horrible  to  look  at ;  disease 
had  so  wasted  that  woman  that  she  was  nothing  more  than 
a  phantom.  Her  pale  violet  lips  seemed  not  to  move  when 
she  spoke  to  me.  Although  my  profession  had  familiarised 
me  with  such  spectacles,  by  taking  me  sometimes  to  the 
pillows  of  dying  persons  to  take  down  their  last  wishes,  I 


304     THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

confess  that  the  famiHes  in  tears  and  despair  whom  I  had 
seen  were  as  nothing  beside  that  solitary,  silent  woman  in 
that  enormous  chateau. 

"  I  did  not  hear  the  slightest  sound,  I  could  not  detect 
the  movement  which  the  breathing  of  the  sick  woman 
should  have  imparted  to  the  sheets  that  covered  her;  and 
I  stood  quite  still,  gazing  at  her  in  a  sort  of  stupor.  It 
seems  to  me  that  I  am  there  now.  At  last  her  great  eyes 
moved,  she  tried  to  raise  her  right  hand,  which  fell  back 
upon  the  bed,  and  these  words  came  from  her  mouth  like  a 
breath,  for  her  voice  had  already  ceased  to  be  a  voice :  *  I 
have  been  awaiting  you  with  much  impatience.' — Her  cheeks 
suddenly  flushed.  It  was  a  great  effort  for  her  to  speak, 
monsieur. — '  Madame,'  I  said.  She  motioned  to  me  to  be 
silent.  At  that  moment  the  old  nurse  rose  and  whispered  in 
my  ear :  '  Don't  speak ;  madame  countess  cannot  bear  to  hear 
the  sHghtest  sound,  and  what  you  said  might  excite  her ' — 
I  sat  down.  A  few  moments  later,  Madame  de  Merret  col- 
lected all  her  remaining  strength,  to  move  her  right  arm  and 
thrust  it,  not  without  infinite  difficulty,  beneath  her  bolster; 
she  paused  for  just  a  moment;  then  she  made  a  last  effort 
to  withdraw  her  hand,  and  when  she  finally  produced  a  sealed 
paper,  drops  of  sweat  fell  from  her  brow. — '  I  place  my  will 
in  your  hands,'  she  said.  *  Oh,  mon  Dieu!  oh  !' — That  was 
all.  She  grasped  a  crucifix  that  lay  on  her  bed,  hastily  put  it 
to  her  lips,  and  died.  The  expression  of  her  staring  eyes 
makes  me  shudder  even  now,  when  I  think  of  it.  She  must 
have  suffered  terribly  !  There  was  a  gleam  of  joy  in  her  last 
glance,  a  sentiment  which  remained  in  her  dead  eyes. 

"  I  carried  the  will  away ;  and  when  it  was  opened,  I 
found  that  Madame  de  Merret  had  appointed  me  her  executor. 
She  left  all  her  property  to  the  hospital  at  Vendome  with  the 
exception  of  a  few  individual  legacies.  But  these  were  her 
provisions  with  respect  to  La  Grande  Breteche :  She  directed 
me  to  leave  her  house,  for  fifty  years  from  the  day  of  her 
death,  in  the  same  condition  as  at  the  moment  that  she  died ; 
forbidding  any  person  whatsoever  to  enter* the  rooms,  forbid- 
ding the  slightest  repairs  to  be  made,  and  even  setting  aside 
a  sum  in  order  to  hire  keepers,  if  it  should  be  found  neces- 
sary, to  assure  the  literal  execution  of  her  purpose.  At  the 
expiration  of  that  period,  if  the  desire  of  the  testatrix  has 


LA  GRANDE  BRETECHE  3^5 

been  carried  out,  the  house  is  to  belong  to  my  heirs,  for  mon- 
sieur knows  that  notaries  cannot  accept  legacies.  If  not.  La 
Grande  Breteche  is  to  revert  to  whoever  is  entitled  to  it,  but 
with  the  obligation  to  comply  with  the  conditions  set  forth 
in  a  codicil  attached  to  the  will,  which  is  not  to  be  opened 
until  the  expiration  of  the  said  fifty  years.  The  will  was  not 
attacked;  and  so " 

At  that,  without  finishing  his  sentence,  the  elongated  no- 
tary glanced  at  me  with  a  triumphant  air,  and  I  made  him 
altogether  happy  by  addressing  a  few  compliments  to  him. 

"  Monsieur,"  I  said,  "  you  have  made  a  profound  impres- 
sion upon  me,-  so  that  I  think  I  see  that  dying  woman,  paler 
than  her  sheets;  her  gleaming  eyes  terrify  me;  and  I  shall 
dream  of  her  to-night.  But  you  must  have  formed  some 
conjecture  concerning  the  provisions  of  that  extraordinary 
will." 

"  Monsieur,"  he  said  with  a  comical  reserve,  "  I  never 
allow  myself  to  judge  the  conduct  of  those  persons  who  hon- 
our me  by  giving  me  a  diamond." 

I  soon  loosened  the  tongue  of  the  scrupulous  Vendomese 
notary,  who  communicated  to  me,  not  without  long  digres- 
sions, observations  due  to  the  profound  politicians  of  both 
sexes  whose  decrees  are  law  in  Vendome.  But  those  obser- 
vations were  so  contradictory  and  so  diffuse  that  I  almost 
fell  asleep,  despite  the  interest  I  took  in  that  authentic  narra- 
tive. The  dull  and  monotonous  tone  of  the  notary,  who  was 
accustomed,  no  doubt,  to  listen  to  himself,  and  to  force  his 
clients  and  his  fellow  citizens  to  listen  to  him,  triumphed 
over  my  curiosity. 

"  Aha !  many  people,  monsieur,"  he  said  to  me  on  the 
landing,  "would  like  to  live  forty-five  years  more;  but  just 
a  minute !  "  and  with  a  sly  expression,  he  placed  his  right 
forefinger  on  his  nose,  as  if  he  would  have  said :  "  Just  mark 
what  I  say." — "  But  to  do  that,  to  do  that,"  he  added,  "  a  man 
must  be  less  than  sixty." 

I  closed  my  door,  having  been  roused  from  my  apathy  by 
this  last  shaft,  which  the  notary  considered  very  clever ;  then 
I  seated  myself  in  my  easy-chair,  placing  my  feet  on  the  and- 
irons. I  was  soon  absorbed  in  an  imaginary  romance  a  la 
Radcliffe,  based  upon  the  judicial  observations  of  Monsieur 
Regnault,  when  my  door,  under  the  skilful  manipulation  of  a 


3o6     THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

woman's  hand,  turned  upon  its  hinges.  My  hostess  appeared, 
a  stout  red-faced  woman,  of  excellent  disposition,  who  had 
missed  her  vocation:  she  was  a  Fleming,  who  should  have 
been  born  in  a  picture  by  Teniers. 

"  Well,  monsieur,"  she  said,  "  no  doubt  Monsieur  Re- 
gnault  has  given  you  his  story  of  La  Grande  Breteche  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Mother  Lepas." 

"What  did  he  tell  you?" 

I  repeated  in  a  few  words  the  chilling  and  gloomy  story 
of  Madame  de  Merret.  At  each  sentence  my  hostess  thrust 
out  her  neck,  gazing  at  me  with  the  true  innkeeper's  per- 
spicacity— a  sort  of  happy  medium  between  the  instinct  of 
the  detective,  the  cunning  of  the  spy,  and  the  craft  of  the 
trader. 

"  My  dear  Madame  Lepas,"  I  added,  as  I  concluded,  "  you 
evidently  know  more,  eh  ?  If  not,  why  should  you  have  come 
up  here?  " 

"  Oh !  on  an  honest  woman's  word,  as  true  as  my  name's 
Lepas " 

"  Don't  swear ;  your  eyes  are  big  with  a  secret.  You 
knew  Monsieur  de  Merret.    What  sort  of  a  man  was  he  ?  " 

Bless  my  soul !  Monsieur  de  Merret  was  a  fine  man, 
whom  you  never  could  see  the  whole  of,  he  was  so  long;  an 
excellent  gentleman,  who  came  here  from  Picardy,  and  who 
had  his  brains  very  near  his  cap,  as  we  say  here.  He  paid 
cash  for  everything,  in  order  not  to  have  trouble  with  any- 
body. You  see,  he  was  lively.  We  women  all  found  him 
very  agreeable." 

"  Because  he  was  lively?"  I  asked. 

"  That  may  be,"  she  said.  "  You  know,  monsieur,  that  a 
man  must  have  had  something  in  front  of  him,  as  they  say, 
to  mairv  Madame  de  Merret.  ^who.  without  saying  anything 
agamst  the  others,  was  the  loveliest  and  richest  woman  in 
the  whole  province.  She  had  about  twenty  thousand  francs 
a  year.  The  whole  town  went  to  her  weddifig.  The  bride 
was  dainty  and  attractive,  a  real  jewel  of  a  woman.  Ah ! 
they  made  a  handsome  couple  at  that  time !  " 

"Did  they  live  happily  together?" 

"  Oh,  dear !  oh,  dear !  yes  and  no,  so  far  as  any  one  could 
tell;  for,  as  you  can  imagine,  we  folks  didn't  live  on  inti- 
mate terms   with  them.     Madame  de  Merret  was  a  kind- 


LA  GRANDE  BRET£CHE  307 

hearted  woftiafi,  Very  pleasant,  who  had  to  suffer  sometimes 
perhaps  from  her  husband's  quick  temper;  but  although  he 
was  a  bit  proud,  we  liked  him.  You  see,  it  was  his  business 
to  be  like  that;  when  a  man  is  noble,  you  know " 

"  However,  some  catastrophe  must  have  happened,  to 
make  Monsieur  and  Madame  de  Merret  separate  so  vio- 
lently?" 

"  I  didn't  say  there  was  any  catastrophe,  monsieur.  I 
don't  know  anything  about  it." 

"  Good  !    I  am  sure  now  that  you  know  all  about  it." 

"  Well,  monsieur,  I  will  tell  you  all  I  know.  When  I  saw 
Monsieur  Regnault  come  up  to  your  room,  I  had  an  idea  that 
he  would  talk  to  you  about  Madame  de  Merret  in  connection 
with  La  Grande  Breteche.  That  gave  me  the  idea  of  con- 
sulting with  monsieur,  who  seems  to  me  a  man  of  good 
judgment  and  incapable  of  playing  false  with  a  poor  woman 
like  me,  who  never  did  anybody  any  harm,  and  yet  who's 
troubled  by  her  conscience.  Up  to  this  time  I've  never  dared 
to  speak  out  to  the  people  of  this  neighbourhood,  for  they're 
all  sharp-tongued  gossips.  And  then,  monsieur,  I've  never 
had  a  guest  stay  in  my  inn  so  long  as  you  have,  and  to 
whom  I  could  tell  the  story  of  the  fifteen  thousand  francs," 

"  My  dear  Madame  Lepas,"  I  said,  arresting  the  flood  of 
her  words,  "  if  your  confidence  is  likely  to  compromise  me,  I 
wouldn't  be  burdened  with  it  for  a  moment,  for  anything  in 
the  world." 

"  Don't  be  afraid,"  she  said,  interrupting  me ;  "  you  shall 
see." 

This  eagerness  on  her  part  made  me  think  that  I  was 
not  the  only  one  to  whom  my  worthy  hostess  had  commu- 
nicated the  secret  of  which  I  dreaded  to  be  the  only  confidant, 
and  I  listened. 

"  Monsieur,"  she  began,  "  when  the  Emperor  sent  Span^ 
ish  or  other  prisoners  of  war  here,  I  had  to  board,  at  the 
expense  of  the  government,  a  young  Spaniard  who  was  sent 
to  Vendome  on  parole.  In  spite  of  the  parole,  he  went  every 
day  to  show  himself  to  the  subprefect.  He  was  a  Spanish 
grandee  !  Nothing  less  !  He  had  a  name  in  os  and  dia,  some- 
thing like  Bagos  de  Feredia.  I  have  his  name  written  on  my 
register;  you  can  read  it  if  you  wish.  He  was  a  fine  young 
man  for  a  Spaniard,  who  they  say  are  all  ugly.    He  was  only 


3©^      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

five  feet  two  or  three  inches  tall,  but  he  was  well-built;  he 
had  little  hands,  which  he  took  care  of — oh  !  you  should  have 
seen ;  he  had  as  many  brushes  for  his  hands  as  a  woman  has 
for  all  purposes !  He  had  long  black  hair,  a  flashing  eye, 
and  rather  a  copper-coloured  skin,  which  I  liked  all  the  same. 
He  wore  such  fine  linen  as  I  never  saw  before  on  any  one, 
although  I  have  entertained  princesses,  and  among  others 
General  Bertrand,  the  Duke  and  Duchess  d'Abrantes,  Mon- 
sieur Decazes,  and  the  King  of  Spain.  He  didn't  eat  much ; 
but  he  had  polite  and  pleasant  manners,  so  that  I  couldn't  be 
angry  with  him  for  it.  Oh  !  I  was  very  fond  of  him,  although 
he  didn't  say  four  words  a  day,  and  it  was  impossible  to  have 
the  slightest  conversation  with  him ;  if  any  one  spoke  to  him, 
he  wouldn't  answer ;  it  was  a  fad,  a  mania  that  they  all  have, 
so  they  tell  me.  He  read  his  breviary  Hke  a  priest,  he  went 
to  mass  and  to  the  services  regularly.  Where  did  he  sit? 
We  noticed  that  later :  about  two  steps  from  Madame  de  Mer- 
ret's  private  chapel.  As  he  took  his  seat  there  the  first  time 
that  he  came  to  the  church,  nobody  imagined  that  there  was 
any  design  in  it.  Besides,  he  never  took  his  face  off  his 
prayer-book,  the  poor  young  man !  In  the  evening,  mon- 
sieur, he  used  to  walk  on  the  mountain,  among  the  ruins  of 
the  chateau.  That  was  the  poor  man's  only  amusement ;  he 
was  reminded  of  his  own  country  there.  They  say  that 
there's  nothing  but  mountains  in  Spain. 

"  Very  soon  after  he  came  here  he  began  to  stay  out  late. 
I  was  anxious  when  he  didn't  come  home  till  midnight ;  but 
we  all  got  used  to  his  whim;  he  would  take  the  key  of  the 
door,  and  we  wouldn't  wait  for  him.  He  lived  in  a  house  that 
we  have  on  Rue  de  Casernes.  Then  one  of  our  stablemen  told 
us  that  one  night,  when  he  took  the  horses  to  drink,  he  thought 
he  saw  the  Spanish  grandee  swimming  far  out  in  the  river, 
like  a  real  fish.  When  he  came  back,  I  told  him  to  be  careful 
of  the  eel-grass ;  he  seemed  vexed  that  he  had  been  seen  in  the 
water.  At  last,  monsieur,  one  day,  or  rather  one  morning,  we 
didn't  find  him  in  his  room;  he  hadn't  come  home.  By  hunt- 
ing carefully  everywhere,  I  found  a  writing  in  his  table 
drawer,  where  there  were  fifty  of  the  Spanish  gold-pieces 
which  they  call  porttcgaises,  and  which  were  worth  about  five 
thousand  francs;  and  then  there  were  ten  thousand  francs' 
worth  of  diamonds  in  a  little  sealed  box.     His  writing  said 


LA  GRANDE   BRETECHE  3^9 

that  in  case  he  didn't  return,  he  left  us  this  money  and  his 
diamonds,  on  condition  that  we  would  found  masses  to  thank 
God  for  his  escape  and  his  salvation.  In  those  days  I  still  had 
my  man,  who  went  out  to  look  for  him.  And  here's  the 
funny  part  of  the  story:  he  brought  back  the  Spaniard's 
clothes,  which  he  found  under  a  big  stone  in  a  sort  of  a  shed 
by  the  river,  on  the  chateau  side,  almost  opposite  La  Grande 
Breteche. 

"  My  busband  went  there  so  early  that  ho  one  saw  him ; 
he  burned  the  clothes  after  reading  the  letter,  and  we  de- 
clared, according  to  Count  Feredia's  wish,  that  he  had  es- 
caped. The  subprefect  set  all  the  gendarmerie  on  his  track, 
but,  bless  my  soul !  they  never  caught  him.  Lepas  believed 
that  the  Spaniard  had  drowned  himself.  For  my  part,  mon- 
sieur, I  don't  think  it;  I  think  rather  that  he  was  mixed  up  in 
Madame  de  Merret's  business,  seeing  that  Rosalie  told  me 
that  the  crucifix  that  her  mistress  thought  so  much  of  that 
she  had  it  buried  with  her,  was  made  of  ebony  and  silver; 
now,  in  the  early  part  of  his  stay  here,  Monsieur  Feredia  had 
one  of  silver  and  ebony,  which  I  didn't  see  afterwards.  Tell 
me  now,  monsieur,  isn't  it  true  that  I  needn't  have  any  re- 
morse about  the  Spaniard's  fifteen  thousand  francs,  and  that 
they  are  fairly  mine?" 

"  Certainly.  But  did  you  never  try  to  question  Rosalie  ?  " 
I  asked  her. 

"Oh!  yes,  indeed,  monsieur.  But  would  you  believe  it? 
That  girl  is  like  a  wall.  She  knows  something,  but  it's  im- 
possible to  make  her  talk." 

After  conversing  a  moment  more  with  me,  my  hostess 
left  me  beset  by  undefined  and  dismal  thoughts,  by  a  roman- 
tic sort  of  curiosity,  a  religious  terror  not  unlike  the  intense 
emotion  that  seizes  us  when  we  enter  a  dark  church  at  night 
and  see  a  dim  light  in  the  distance  under  the  lofty  arches; 
a  vague  figure  gliding  along,  or  the  rustling  of  a  dress  or  a 
surplice;  it  makes  us  shudder.  La  Grande  Breteche  and  its 
tall  weeds,  its  condemned  windows,  its  rusty  ironwork,  its 
closed  doors,  its  deserted  rooms,  suddenly  appeared  before 
me  in  fantastic  guise.  I  tried  to  penetrate  that  mysterious 
abode,  seeking  there  the  kernel  of  that  sombre  story,  of  that 
drama  which  had  caused  the  death  of  three  persons.  In 
my  eyes  Rosalie  was  the  most  interesting  person  in  Vendome. 


310      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

As  I  scrutinised  her,  I  detected  traces  of  some  inmost  thought, 
despite  the  robust  health  that  shone  upon  her  plump  cheeks. 
There  was  in  her  some  seed  of  remorse  or  of  hope ;  her  man- 
ner announced  a  secret,  as  does  that  of  the  devotee  who  prays 
with  excessive  fervour,  or  that  of  the  infanticide,  who  con- 
stantly hears  her  child's  last  cry.  However,  her  attitude  was 
artless  and  natural,  her  stupid  smile  had  no  trace  of  criminal- 
ity, and  you  would  have  voted  her  innocent  simply  by  glan- 
cing at  the  large  handkerchief  with  red  and  blue  squares 
which  covered  her  vigorous  bust,  confined  by  a  gown  with 
white  and  violet  stripes. 

"  No,"  I  thought,  "  I  won't  leave  Vendome  without  learn- 
ing the  whole  story  of  La  Grande  Breteche.  To  obtain  my 
end,  I  will  become  Rosalie's  friend,  if  it  is  absolutely  neces- 
sary." 

"  Rosalie  ?  "  I  said  one  evening. 

"  What  is  it,  monsieur  ?  " 

"  You  are  not  married  ?  " 

She  started  slightly. 

"  Oh !  I  sha'n't  lack  men  when  I  take  a  fancy  to  be  un- 
happy !  "  she  said  with  a  laugh. 

She  speedily  overcame  her  inward  emotion ;  for  all  wom- 
en, from  the  great  lady  down  to  the  servant  at  an  inn,  have 
a  self-possession  which  is  peculiar  to  them. 

"  You  are  fresh  and  appetising  enough  not  to  lack  suitors. 
But  tell  me,  Rosalie,  why  did  you  go  to  work  in  an  inn  when 
you  left  Madame  de  Merret's?  Didn't  she  leave  you  some 
money  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes !  but  my  place  is  the  best  in  Vendome,  mon- 
sieur." 

This  reply  was  one  of  those  which  judges  and  lawyers  call 
dilatory.  Rosalie  seemed  to  me  to  occupy  in  that  romantic 
story  the  position  of  the  square  in  the  middle  of  the  chess- 
board; she  was  at  the  very  centre  of  interest  and  of  truth; 
she  seemed  to  me  to  be  tied  up  in  the  clew ;  it  was  no  longer 
an  ordinary  case  of  attempting  seduction;  there  was  in  that 
girl  the  last  chapter  of  a  romance;  and  so,  from  that  mo- 
ment, Rosalie  became  the  object  of  my  attentions.  By  dint 
of  studying  the  girl,  I  observed  in  her,  as  in  all  women  to 
whom  we  devote  all  our  thoughts,  a  multitude  of  good  qual- 
ities :  she  was  neat  and  clean,  and  ^e  was  fine-looking — that 


LA  GRANDE  BRETECHE  3^^ 

goes  without  saying;  she  had  also  all  the  attractions  which 
our  desire  imparts  to  women,  in  whatever  station  of  life  they 
may  be.  A  fortnight  after  the  notary's  visit,  I  said  to  Rosalie 
one  evening,  or  rather  one  morning,  for  it  was  very  early: 

"  Tell  me  all  that  you  know  about  Madame  de  Merret." 

*'  Oh,  don't  ask  me  that,  Monsieur  Horace !  "  she  replied 
in  alarm. 

Her  pretty  face  darkened,  her  bright  colour  vanished,  and 
her  eyes  lost  their  humid,  innocent  light.     But  I  insisted. 

"  Well,">  she  rejoined,  "  as  you  insist  upon  it,  I  will  tell 
you;  but  keep  my  secret." 

"  Of  course,  of  course,  my  dear  girl ;  I  will  keep  all  your 
secrets  with  the  probity  of  a  thief,  and  that  is  the  most  loyal 
probity  that  exists." 

"  If  it's  all  the  same  to  you,"  she  said,  "  I  prefer  that  it 
should  be  with  your  own." 

Thereupon  she  arranged  her  neckerchief,  and  assumed  the 
attitude  of  a  story-teller ;  for  there  certainly  is  an  attitude  of 
trust  and  security  essential  to  the  telling  of  a  story.  The  best 
stories  are  told  at  a  certain  hour,  and  at  the  table,  as  we 
all  are  now.  No  one  ever  told  a  story  well  while  standing, 
or  fasting.  But  if  it  were  necessary  to  reproduce  faithfully 
Rosalie's  diffuse  eloquence,  a  whole  volume  would  hardly 
suffice.  Now,  as  the  event  of  which  she  gave  me  a  confused 
account,  occupied,  between  the  loquacity  of  the  notary  and 
that  of  Madame  Lepas,  the  exact  position  of  the  mean  terms 
of  an  arithmetical  proportion  between  the  two  extremes,  it  is 
'only  necessary  for  me  to  repeat  it  to  you  in  a  few  words. 
Therefore  I  abridge. 

The  room  which  Madame  de  Merret  occupied  at  La 
Grande  Breteche  was  on  the  ground  floor.  A  small  closet, 
about  four  feet  deep,  in  the  wall,  served  as  her  wardrobe. 
Three  months  before  the  evening,  the  incidents  of  which  I 
am  about  to  narrate,  Madame  de  Merret  had  been  so  seriously 
indisposed  that  her  husband  left  her  alone  in  her  room  and 
slept  in  a  room  on  the  first  floor.  By  one  of  those  chances 
which  it  is  impossible  to  foresee,  he  returned  home,  on  the 
evening  in  question,  two  hours  later  than  usual,  from  the 
club  to  which  he  was  accustomed  to  go  to  read  the  newspapers 
and  to  talk  politics  with  the  people  of  the  neighbourhood. 
His  wife  supposed  that  he  had  come  home,  and  had  gone  to 


312  T?IE   BOOK   OF  THE   SHORT   STORY 

bed  and  to  sleep.  But  the  invasion  of  France  had  given  rise 
to  a  lively  discussion;  the  game  of  billiards  had  been  very 
close,  and  he  had  lost  forty  francs,  an  enormous  sum  at 
Vendome,  where  everybody  hoards  money,  and  v^^here  man- 
ners are  confined  within  the  limits  of  a  modesty  worthy  of  all 
praise,  which  perhaps  is  the  source  of  a  true  happiness  of 
which  no  Parisian  has  a  suspicion. 

For  some  time  past  Monsieur  de  Merret  had  con- 
tented himself  with  asking  Rosalie  if  his  wife  were  in 
bed ;  at  the  girl's  reply,  always  in  the  affirmative,  he  went 
immediately  to  his  own  room  with  the  readiness  born  of 
habit  and  confidence.  But  on  returning  hom.e  that  evening, 
he  took  it  into  his  head  to  go  to  Madame  de  Merret's  room, 
to  tell  her  of  his  misadventure  and  perhaps  also  to  console 
himself  for  it.  During  dinner  he  had  remarked  that  Madame 
de  Merret  was  very  coquettishly  dressed ;  he  said  to  himself 
as  he  walked  home  from  the  club,  that  his  wife  was  no 
longer  ill,  that  her  convalescence  had  improved  her;  but 
he  perceived  it,  as  husbands  notice  everything,  a  little  late. 
Instead  of  calling  Rosalie,  who  at  that  moment  was  busy  in 
the  kitchen,  watching  the  cook  and  the  coachman  play  a 
difficult  hand  of  hrisque,  Monsieur  de  Merret  went  to  his 
wife's  room,  lighted  by  his  lantern,  which  he  had  placed  on 
the  top  step  of  the  stairs.  His  footstep,  easily  recognised, 
resounded  under  the  arches  of  the  corridor.  At  the  instant 
that  he  turned  the  knob  of  his  wife's  door,  he  fancied  that  he 
heard  the  door  of  the  closet  that  I  have  mentioned  close ;  but 
when  he  entered,  Madame  de  Merret  was  alone,  standing  in 
front  of  the  hearth.  The  husband  naively  concluded  that 
Rosalie  was  in  the  closet ;  however,  a  suspicion,  that  rang  in 
his  ears  like  the  striking  of  a  clock,  made  him  distrustful;  he 
looked  at  his  wife  and  detected  in  her  eyes  something  inde- 
finable of  confusion  and  dismay. 

"  You  come  home  very  late/"  she  said. 

That  voice,  usually  so  pure  and  so  gracious,  seemed  to 
him  slightly  changed.  He  made  no  reply,  but  at  that  mo- 
ment Rosalie  entered  the  room.  That  was  a  thunderclap  to 
him.  He  walked  about  the  room,  from  one  window  to  an- 
other, with  a  uniform  step  and  with  folded  arms. 

"  Have  you  learned  anything  distressing,  or  are  you  ill?" 
his  wife  timidly  asked  him,  while  Rosalie  undressed  her. 


LA  GRANDE  BRETECHE  313 

He  made  no  reply. 

"  You  may  go,"  said  Madame  de  Merret  to  her  maid ;  "  I 
will  put  on  my  curl-papers  myself." 

She  divined  some  catastrophe  simply  from  the  expression 
of  her  husband's  face,  and  she  preferred  to  be  alone  with 
him.  When  Rosalie  was  gone,  or  was  supposed  to  be  gone, 
for  she  stayed  for  some  moments  in  the  corridor.  Monsieur 
de  Merret  took  his  stand  in  front  of  his  wife,  and  said  to 
her  coldly: 

"  Madame,  there  is  some  one  in  your  closet  ?  " 

She  looked  at  her  husband  calmly,  and  replied  simply: 

"  No,  monsieur." 

That  "  no  "  tore  Monsieur  de  Merret's  heart,  for  he  did 
not  believe  it;  and  yet  his  wife  had  never  seemed  to  him 
purer  and  more  holy  than  she  seemed  at  that  moment.  He 
rose  to  open  the  closet  door;  Madame  de  Merret  took  his 
hand,  stopped  him,  looked  at  him  with  a  melancholy  expres- 
sion, and  said  in  a  voice  strangely  moved: 

"  If  you  find  no  one,  reflect  that  all  is  at  an  end  between 
us!" 

The  indescribable  dignity  of  his  wife's  attitude  reawoke 
the  gentleman's  profound  esteem  for  her,  and  inspired  in  him 
one  of  those  resolutions  which  require  only  a  vaster  theatre 
in  order  to  become  immortal. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  I  will  not  do  it,  Josephine.  In  either 
case,  we  should  be  separated  forever.  Listen;  I  know  all 
the  purity  of  your  soul,  and  I  know  that  you  lead  the  life 
of  a  saint,  and  that  you  would  not  commit  a  mortal  sin  to 
save  your  life." 

At  these  words,  Madame  de  Merret  looked  at  her  husband 
with  a  haggard  eye. 

"  See,  here  is  your  crucifix ;  swear  to  me  before  God 
that  there  is  no  one  there,  and  I  will  believe  you,  I  will  never 
open  that  door." 

Madame  de  Merret  took  the  crucifix  and  said: 

"  I  swear  it." 

"  Louder,"  said  the  husband,  and  repeat  after  me :  *  I 
swear  before  God  that  there  is  no  one  in  that  closet.' " 

She  repeated  the  words  without  confusion. 

"  It  is  well,"  said  Monsieur  de  Merret  coldly.  After  a 
moment's  silence :  "  This  is  a  very  beautiful  thing  that  I  did 
21 


314      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

not  know  you  possessed,"  he  said,  as  he  examined  the  crucifix 
of  ebony  encrusted  with  silver  and  beautifully  carved. 

"  I  found  it  at  Duvivier's ;  when  that  party  of  prisoners 
passed  through  Vendome  last  year,  he  bought  it  of  a  Spanish 
monk," 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Monsieur  de  Merret,  replacing  the  crucifix 
on  the  nail.  And  he  rang.  Rosalie  did  not  keep  him  waiting. 
Monsieur  de  Merret  walked  hastily  to  meet  her,  led  her  into 
the  embrasure  of  the  window  looking  over  the  garden,  and 
said  to  her  in  a  low  voice: 

"  I  know  that  Gorenflot  wants  to  marry  you,  that  poverty 
alone  prevents  you  from  coming  together,  and  that  you  have 
told  him  that  you  would  not  be  his  wife  until  he  found  some 
way  to  become  a  master  mason.  Well,  go  to  him,  and  tell 
him  to  come  here  with  his  trowel  and  his  tools.  Manage  so 
as  not  to  wake  anybody  in  his  house  but  him ;  his  fortune  will 
exceed  your  desires.  Above  all,  go  out  of  this  house  without 
chattering,  or " 

He  frowned.    Rosalie  started,  and  he  called  her  back. 

"  Here,  take  my  pass-key,"  he  said. 

"  Jean !  "  shouted  Monsieur  de  Merret  in  the  corridor,  in 
a  yoice  of  thunder. 

Jean,  who  was  both  his  coachman  and  his  confiden- 
tial man,  left  his  game  of  brisque  and  answered  the  sum- 
mons. 

"  Go  to  bed,  all  of  you,"  said  his  master,  motioning  to  him 
to  come  near.  And  he  added,  but  in  an  undertone :  "  When 
they  are  all  asleep,  asleep,  do  you  understand,  you  will  come 
down  and  let  me  know." 

Monsieur  de  Merret,  who  had  not  lost  sight  of  his  wife 
while  giving  his  orders,  calmly  returned  to  her  side  in  front 
of  the  fire,  and  began  to  tell  her  about  the  game  of  billiards 
and  the  discussion  at  the  club.  When  Rosalie  returned  she 
found  monsieur  and  madame  talking  most  amicably.  The 
gentleman  had  recently  had  plastered  all  the  rooms  which 
composed  his  reception-apartment  on  the  ground  floor. 
Plaster  is  very  scarce  in  Vendome,  and  the  cost  of  transporta- 
tion increases  the  price  materially;  so  he  had  purchased  quite 
a  large  quantity,  knowing  that  he  would  readily  find  custom- 
ers for  any  that  he  might  have  left.  That  circumstance  sug- 
gested the  design  which  he  proceeded  to  carry  out. 


LA  GRANDE   BRETECHE  31 S 

"  Gorenflot  is  here,  monsieur,"  said  Rosalie  in  an  under- 
tone. 

"  Let  him  come  in,"  repHed  the  Pjcard  gentleman  aloud. 

Madame  de  Merret  turned  pale  when  she  saw  the  mason. 

"  Gorenflot,"  said  her  husband,  **  go  out  to  the  carriage- 
house  and  get  some  bricks,  and  bring  in  enough  to  wall  up 
the  door  of  this  closet ;  you  can  use  the  plaster  that  I  had  left 
over,  to  plaster  the  wall."  Then,  beckoning  Rosalie  and  the 
workman  'to  him,  he  said  in  a  low  tone :  "  Look  you,  Goren- 
flot, you  will  sleep  here  to-night.  But  to-morrow  morning 
you  shall  have  a  passport  to  go  abroad,  to  a  city  which  I  will 
name  to  you.  I  will  give  you  six  thousand  francs  for  your 
journey.  You  will  remain  ten  years  in  that  city;  if  you  are 
not  satisfied  there,  you  can  settle  in  another  city,  provided  that 
it  is  in  the  same  country.  You  will  go  by  way  of  Paris,  where 
you  will  wait  for  me.  There  I  will  give  you  a  guarantee  to 
pay  you  six  thousand  francs  more  on  your  return,  in  case 
you  have  abided  by  the  conditions  of  our  bargain.  At  that 
price  you  should  be  willing  to  keep  silent  concerning  what 
you  have  done  here  to-night.  As  for  you,  Rosalie,  I  will 
give  you  ten  thousand  francs,  which  will  be  paid  to  you  on 
the  day  of  your  wedding,  provided  that  you  marry  Gorenflot ; 
but,  in  order  to  be  married,  you  will  have  to  be  silent;  if  not, 
no  dower." 

"  Rosalie,"  said  Madame  de  Merret,  "  come  here  and  ar- 
range my  hair." 

The  husband  walked  tranquilly  back  and  forth,  watching 
the  door,  the  mason,  and  his  wife,  but  without  any  outward 
sign  of  injurious  suspicion.  Gorenflot  was  obliged  to  make  a 
noise;  Madame  de  Merret  seized  an  opportunity,  when  the 
workman  was  dropping  some  bricks,  and  when  her  hus- 
band was  at  the  other  end  of  the  room,  to  say  to  Rosalie : 

"  A  thousand  francs  a  year  to  you,  my  dear  child,  if  you 
can  tell  Gorenflot  to  leave  a  crack  at  the  bottom. — Go  and 
help  him,"  she  said  coolly,  aloud. 

Monsieur  and  Madame  de  Merret  said  not  a  word  while 
Gorenflot  was  walling  up  the  door.  That  silence  was  the 
result  of  design  on  the  husband's  part,  for  he  did  not  choose 
to  allow  his  wife  a  pretext  for  uttering  words  of  double  mean- 
ing ;  and  on  Madame  de  Merret's  part,  it  was  either  prudence 
or  pride.     When  the  wall  was  half  built,  the  crafty  mason 


$16  THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

seized  a  moment  when  the  gentleman's  back  was  turned,  to 
strike  his  pickaxe  through  one  of  the  panes  of  the  glass  door. 
That  act  gave  Madame  de  Merret  to  understand  that  Rosalie 
had  spoken  to  Gorenflot.  At  that  moment  all  three  saw  a 
man's  face,  dark  and  sombre,  with  black  hair  and  fiery  eyes. 
Before  her  husband  had  turned,  the  poor  woman  had  time 
to  make  a  motion  of  her  head  to  the  stranger,  to  whom 
that  signal  meant :  "  Hope  !  " 

At  four  o'clock,  about  daybreak,  for  it  was  September,  the 
work  was  finished.  The  mason  remained  in  the  house  under 
the  eye  of  Jean,  and  Monsieur  de  Merret  slept  in  his  wife's 
chamber.    In  the  morning,  on  rising,  he  said  carelessly: 

"  Ah  !  by  the  way,  I  must  go  to  the  mayor's  office  for  the 
passport." 

He  put  his  hat  on  his  head,  walked  towards  the  door, 
turned  back  and  took  the  crucifix.  His  wife  fairly  trembled 
with  joy. 

"  He  will  go  to  Duvivier's,"  she  thought. 

As  soon  as  the  gentleman  had  left  the  room,  Madame  de 
Merret  rang  for  Rosalie ;  then,  in  a  terrible  voice,  she  cried : 

"  The  pickaxe ;  the  pickaxe !  and  to  work !  I  saw  how 
Gorenflot  understood  last  night ;  we  shall  have  time  to  make 
a  hole,  and  stop  it  up." 

In  a  twinkling  Rosalie  brought  her  mistress  a  sort  of 
small  axe,  and  she,  with  an  ardour  which  no  words  can 
describe,  began  to  demolish  the  wall.  She  had  already 
loosened  several  bricks,  when,  as  she  stepped  back  to  deal  a 
blow  even  harder  than  the  preceding  ones,  she  saw  Mon- 
sieur de  Merret  behind  her;  she  fainted. 

"  Put  madame  on  her  bed,"  said  the  gentleman,  coldly. 

Anticipating  what  was  likely  to  happen  during  his  ab- 
sence, he  had  laid  a  trap  for  his  wife;  he  had  simply  written 
to  the  mayor,  and  had  sent  a  messenger  to  Duvivier.  The 
jeweller  arrived  just  as  the  disorder  in  the  room  had  been 
repaired.  » 

"  Duvivier,"  asked  Monsieur  de  Merret,  "  didn't  you  buy 
some  crucifixes  from  the  Spaniards  who  passed  through 
here?" 

"  No,  monsieur." 

"  Very  well ;  I  thank  you,"  he  said,  exchanging  with  his 
wife  a  tigerlike  glance. — "  Jean,"  he  added,  turning  towards 


LA  GkANDE  BRETECHE  ^t1 

his  confidential  valet,  "  you  will  have  my  meals  served  in 
Madame  de  Merret's  room;  she  is  ill,  and  I  shall  not  leave 
her  until  she  is  well  again." 

The  cruel  man  remained  with  his  wife  twenty  days. 
During  the  first  days,  when  there  was  a  noise  in  the  walled- 
up  closet  and  Josephine  attempted  to  implore  him  in  behalf 
of  the  dying  unknown,  he  replied,  not  allowing  her  to  utter 
a  word: 

"  You  jiave  sworn  on  the  cross  that  there  was  no  one 
there." 


A    LIST    OF    REPRESENTATIVE    TALES    AND 
SHORT    STORIES 

XIII 

1850   TO    i860: 

The  Great  Stone  Face,  Nathaniel  Hawthorne  (1850). 
Contes  de  la  Veillee,  Charles  Nodier    (1850). 
A  Child's  Dream  of  a  Star,  Charles  Dickens   (1850). 
The  Diary  of  a  Superfluous  Man,  Ivan  Turgeneff  (1850). 
Gudbrand  i  Lien,  from  folk-lore  stories  collected  by  Asbjorn- 

sen  and  Moe  (about  1850). 
The  King  of  the  Golden  River,  John  Ruskin  (1851). 
Ethan  Brand,   Nathaniel  Hawthorne   (1851). 
Arria  Marcella,  Theophile  Gautier   (1852). 
The  Snow  Image,  and  Other  Twice-Told  Tales;  Nathaniel 

Hawthorne   (1852). 
A  Sportsman's  Sketches,  Ivan  Turgeneff   (1852). 
Nouvelles,  Prosper  Merimee   (1852). 
Mumu,  Ivan  Turgeneff  (1852). 
Immensee,  T.  W.  Storm   (1852). 
A   Russian    Proprietor,   and    Other   Stories;   Lyof    Tolstoy 

(1852-59). 
LArrabbiata,  Paul  Heyse   (1855). 
Sevastopol,  Lyof  Tolstoy   (1855). 
Faust,  Ivan  Turgeneff  (1855).   ■ 
Wolfert's  Roost,  Washington  Irving  (1855). 
Novellen,  Paul  Heyse  (1855). 

Kulturgeschichtliche  Novellen,  W.  H.   Riehl   (1856). 
Les  Mariages  de  Paris,  Edmond  About  (1856). 
After  Dark,  W.  W.  Collins   (1856). 
Romans  et  Contes,  Theophile  Gautier  (1857). 
Synnove  Solbakken,  B.   Bjornson   (1857). 
Arne,  B.  Bjornson  (1858). 

319 


320  THE   BOOK   OF   THE   SHORT   STORY 

The  Diamond  Lens,  Fitz-James  O'Brien   (1858). 

Rab  and  his  Friends,  John  Brown   (1858). 

Dr.  Manette's  Manuscript,  Charles  Dickens,  A  Tale  of  Two 

Cities  (1859). 
En  Glad   Gut,  B.   Bjornson    (1859). 
The    Haunted   and   the    Haunters,    Edward    Bulwer-Lytton 

(1859). 

My  Double  and  How  He  Undid  Me,  Edward  Everett  Hale 

(1859). 
What  Was  It?,  Fitz-James  O'Brien  (1859). 
The  Wondersmith,  Fitz-James  O'Brien  (1859). 


THE  BIRTHMARK 


THE    BIRTHMARK 

The  Birthmark,  by  Nathaniel  Hawthorne  (1804- 
1864),  was  first  pubHshed  in  the  March,  1843,  number 
of  The  Pioneer,  a  short-Hved  monthly  edited  by  J.  R. 
Lowell.  It  was  republished  in  the  first  edition  of  Mosses 
from  an  Old  Manse,  in  1846.  In  1837  had  appeared  the 
first  series  of  Hawthorne's  Twice-Told  Tales,  which  was 
followed  in  1842  by  a  second  series.  In  1852  appeared 
The  Snow  Image,  and  Other  Twice-Told  Tales.  The 
four  volumes  mentioned  form  Hawthorne's  most  impor- 
tant ventures  in  the  field  of  the  short  story. 

*'  The  great  charm  of  these  stories,"  says  Henry 
James,  "  is  that  they  are  glimpses  of  a  great  field,  of  the 
whole  deep  mystery  of  man's  soul  and  conscience."  The 
Birthmark  is  one  of  the  finest  and  most  significant  of  all 
the  pieces  of  fiction  that  Hawthorne  wrote.  It  is  not 
without  a  trace  of  that  morbidity  which  allies  him,  on  one 
side  of  his  genius,  with  Edgar  Allan  Poe ;  but  the  essen- 
tial sanity  of  his  moral,  and  the  perfection  of  the  work- 
manship, render  The  Birthmark  worthy  of  its  high  place 
among  the  Short  Stories  of  the  nineteenth  century.  ''  The 
moral  idea,"  says  George  E.  Woodberry,  "  seems  to  flake 
off  from  the  tale,  like  the  moral  of  the  old  fable  " ;  and 
what  remains  is  a  story  of  singular  charm  and  pathos. 

Among  the  best  of  Hawthorne's  stories  may  be  men- 
tioned: The  Gentle  Boy  (1832),  The  Gray  Champion 
(1835),  Wakefield  (1835),  The  Ambitious  Guest  (1835), 
The  White  Old  Maid  (1835),  The  Minister's  Black  Veil 
(1836),  David  Swan  (1836),  The  Great  Carbuncle 
(1836),  Dr.  Heidegger's  Experiment  (1837),  Lady  Elea- 
nore's  Mantle  (1838),  Howe's  Masquerade  (1838),  The 
Birthmark  (1843),  Drowne's  Wooden  Image  (1844?), 
The  Great  Stone  Face  (1850),  and  Ethan  Brand  (1851). 

323 


324  THE  BOOK  OF  THE   SHORT  STORY 

AUTHORITIES  I 

Nathaniel  Hawthorne,  by  George  E.  Woodberry 
(American  Men  of  Letters  series). 

Nathaniel  Hawthorne,  by  Henry  James  (English  Men 
of  Letters  series). 

Literary  Essays,  by  Richard  Holt  Hutton. 

Life  of  Nathaniel  Hawthorne,  by  Moncure  D.  Con- 
way (Great  Writers  series). 

The  Short  Story  in  English,  by  Henry  Seidel  Canby 
(Chapter  XH). 


THE   BIRTHMARK 

» 

In  the  latter  part  of  the  last  century  there  lived  a  man  of 
science,  an  eminent  proficient  in  every  branch  of  natural 
philosophy,  who  not  long  before  our  story  opens  had  made 
experience  of  a  spiritual  affinity  more  attractive  than  any 
chemical  one.  He  had  left  his  laboratory  to  the  care  of  an 
assistant,  cleared  his  fine'  countenance  from  the  furnace- 
smoke,  washed  the  stain  of  acids  from  his  fingers,  and  per- 
suaded a  beautiful  woman  to  become  his  wife.  In  those  days, 
when  the  comparatively  recent  discovery  of  electricity  and 
other  kindred  mysteries  of  Nature  seemed  to  open  paths  into 
the  region  of  miracle,  it  was  not  unusual  for  the  love  of  sci- 
ence to  rival  the  love  of  woman  in  its  depths  and  absorbing 
energy.  The  higher  intellect,  the  imagination,  the  spirit,  and 
even  the  heart  might  all  find  their  congenial  aliment  in  pur- 
suits which,  as  some  of  their  ardent  votaries  beheved,  would 
ascend  from  one  step  of  powerful  intelligence  to  another, 
until  the  philosopher  should  lay  his  hand  on  the  secret  of 
creative  force  and  perhaps  make  new  worlds  for  himself. 
We  know  not  whether  Aylmer  possessed  this  degree  of  faith 
in  man's  ultimate  control  over  nature.  He  had  devoted  him- 
self, however,  too  unreservedly  to  scientific  studies  ever  to 
be  weakened  from  them  by  any  second  passion.  His  love  for 
his  young  wife  might  prove  the  stronger  of  the  two;  but  it 
could  only  be  by  intertwining  itself  with  his  love  of  science 
and  uniting  the  strength  of  the  latter  to  his  own. 

Such  a  union  accordingly  took  place,  and  was  attended 
with  truly  remarkable  consequences  and  a  deeply  impressive 
moral.  One  day,  very  soon  after  their  marriage,  Aylmer  sat 
gazing  at  his  wife  with  a  trouble  in  his  countenance  that 
grew  stronger  until  he  spoke. 

"  Geocgiana,"  said  he,  "  has  it  never  occurred  to  you  that 
the  mark  upon  your  cheek  might  be  removed  ?  " 

32s 


326     THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

"  No,  indeed,"  said  she,  smiling ;  but,  perceiving  the  seri- 
ousness of  his  manner,  she  blushed  deeply.  "  To  tell  you 
the  truth,  it  has  been  so  often  called  a  charm,  that  I  was 
simple  enough  to  imagine  it  might  be  so." 

"  Ah,  upon  another  face  perhaps  it  might,"  replied  her 
husband ;  "  but  never  on  yours.  No,  dearest  Georgiana,  you 
came  so  nearly  perfect  from  the  hand  of  Nature,  that  this 
slightest  possible  defect,  which  we  hesitate  whether  to  term 
a  defect  or  a  beauty,  shocks  me,  as  being  the  visible  mark  of 
earthly  imperfection." 

"  Shocks  you,  my  husband ! "  cried  Georgiana,  deeply 
hurt;  at  first  reddening  with  momentary  anger,  but  then 
bursting  into  tears.  "  Then  why  did  you  take  me  from  my 
mother's  side  ?     You  cannot  love  what  shocks  you !  " 

To  explain  this  conversation,  it  must  be  mentioned  that 
in  the  centre  of  Georgiana's  left  cheek  there  was  a  singular 
mark,  deeply  interwoven,  as  it  were,  with  the  texture  and 
substance  of  her  face.  In  the  usual  state  of  her  complex- 
ion— a  healthy  though  delicate  bloom — the  mark  wore  a  tint 
of  deeper  crimson,  which  imperfectly  defined  its  shape  amid 
the  surrounding  rosiness.  When  she  blushed  it  gradually  be- 
came more  indistinct,  and  finally  vanished  amid  the  triumph- 
ant rush  of  blood  that  bathed  the  whole  cheek  with  its  bril- 
liant glow.  But  if  any  shifting  motion  caused  her  to  turn 
pale  there  was  the  mark  again,  a  crimson  stain  upon  the 
snow,  in  what  Aylmer  sometimes  deemed  an  almost  fearful 
distinctness.  Its  shape  bore  not  a  little  similarity  to  the  hu- 
man hand,  though  of  the  smallest  pigmy  size.  Georgiana's 
lovers  were  wonted  to  say  that  some  fairy  at  her  birth-hour 
had  laid  her  tiny  hand  upon  the  infant's  cheek,  and  left  this 
impress  there  in  token  of  the  magic  endowments  that  were  to 
give  her  such  sway  over  all  hearts.  Many  a  desperate  swain 
would  have  risked  life  for  the  privilege  of  pressing  his  lips 
to  the  mysterious  hand.  It  must  not  be  concealed,  however, 
that  the  impression  wrought  by  this  fairy  sign-manual  varied 
exceedingly  according  to  the  difference  of  temperament  in 
the  beholders.  Some  fastidious  persons — but  they  were  ex- 
clusively of  her  own  sex — affirmed  that  the  bloody  hand,  as 
they  chose  to  call  it,  quite  destroyed  the  effect  of  Georgi- 
ana's beauty  and  rendered  her  countenance  even  hideous. 
But  it  would  be  as  reasonable  to  say  that  one  of  those  small 


THE   BIRTHMARK  327 

blue  stains  which  sometimes  occur  in  the  purest  statuary 
marble  would  convert  the  Eve  of  Powers  to  a  monster.  Mas- 
culine observers,  if  the  birthmark  did  not  heighten  their 
admiration,  contented  themselves  with  wishing  it  away,  that 
the  world  might  possess  one  living  specimen  of  ideal  loveli- 
ness without  the  semblance  of  a  flaw.  After  his  marriage — 
for  he  thought  little  or  nothing  of  the  matter  before — Aylmer 
discovered  that  this  was  the  case  with  himself. 

Had  she  been  less  beautiful — if  Envy's  self  could  have 
found  aught  else  to  sneer  at — he  might  have  felt  his  affection 
heightened  by  the  prettiness  of  this  mimic  hand,  now  vaguely 
portrayed,  now  lost,  now  stealing  forth  again  and  glimmer- 
ing to  and  fro  with  every  pulse  of  emotion  that  throbbed 
within  her  heart;  but,  seeing  her  otherwise  so  perfect,  he 
found  this  one  defect  grow  more  and  more  intolerable  with 
every  moment  of  their  united  lives.  It  was  the  fatal  flaw  of 
humanity  which  Nature,  in  one  shape  or  another,  stamps  in- 
effaceably  on  all  her  productions,  either  to  imply  that  they 
are  temporary  and  finite,  or  that  their  perfection  must  be 
wrought  by  toil  and  pain.  The  crimson  hand  expressed  the 
includible  gripe  in  which  mortality  clutches  the  highest  and 
purest  of  earthly  mould,  degrading  them  into  kindred  with 
the  lowest,  and  even  with  the  very  brutes,  like  whom  their 
visible  frames  return  to  dust.  In  this  manner,  selecting  it  as 
the  symbol  of  his  wife's  liability  to  sin,  sorrow,  decay,  and 
death,  Aylmer's  sombre  imagination  was  not  long  in  render- 
ing the  birthmark  a  frightful  object,  causing  him  more  trouble 
and  horror  than  ever  Georgiana's  beauty,  whether  of  soul  or 
sense,  had  given  him  delight. 

At  all  the  seasons  which  should  have  been  their  happiest 
he  invariably,  and  without  intending  it,  nay,  in  spite  of  a  pur- 
pose to  the  contrary,  reverted  to  this  one  disastrous  topic. 
Trifling  as  it  at  first  appeared,  it  so  connected  itself  with  in- 
numerable trains  of  thought  and  modes  of  feeling  that  it 
became  the  central  point  of  all.  With  the  morning  twilight 
Aylmer  opened  his  eyes  upon  his  wife's  face  and  recog- 
nised the  symbol  of  imperfection;  and  when  they  sat 
together  at  the  evening  hearth  his  eyes  wandered  stealthily 
to  her  cheek,  and  beheld,  flickering  with  the  blaze  of  the 
wood-fire,  the  spectral  hand  that  wrote  mortality  where  he 
would  fain  have  worshipped.     Georgiana  soon   learned  to 


328      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

shudder  at  his  gaze.  It  needed  but  a  glance  with  the  peculiar 
expression  that  his  face  often  wore  to  change  the  roses  of 
her  cheek  into  a  deathlike  paleness,  amid  which  the  crimson 
hand  was  brought  strongly  out,  like  a  bas-relief  of  ruby  on 
the  whitest  marble. 

Late  one  night,  when  the  lights  were  growing  dim  so  as 
hardly  to  betray  the  stain  on  the  poor  wife's  cheek,  she  her- 
self, for  the  first  time,  voluntarily  took  up  the  subject. 

"  Do  you  remember,  my  dear  Aylmer,"  said  she,  with  a 
feeble  attempt  at  a  smile,  "  have  you  any  recollection,  of  a 
dream  last  night  about  this  odious  hand?" 

"  None  !  none  whatever  !  "  replied  Aylmer,  starting ;  but 
then  he  added,  in  a  dry,  cold  tone,  affected  for  the  sake  of 
concealing  the  real  depth  of  his  emotion,  "  I  might  well 
dream  of  it;  for,  before  I  fell  asleep,  it  had  taken  a  pretty 
firm  hold  of  my  fancy." 

"And  you  did  dream  of  it  ?  "  continued  Georgiana,  hastily ; 
for  she  dreaded  lest  a  gush  of  tears  should  interrupt  what  she 
had  to  say.  "  A  terrible  dream !  I  wonder  that  you  can  for- 
get it.  Is  it  possible  to  forget  this  one  expression  ? — *  It  is  in 
her  heart  now ;  we  must  have  it  out ! '  Reflect,  my  husband ; 
for  by  all  means  I  would  have  you  recall  that  dream." 

The  mind  is  in  a  sad  state  when  Sleep,  the  all-involving, 
cannot  confine  her  spectres  within  the  dim  region  of  her  sway, 
but  suffers  them  to  break  forth,  affrighting  this  actual  life 
with  secrets  that  perchance  belong  to  a  deeper  one.  Aylmer 
novv^  remembered  his  dream.  He  had  fancied  himself  with  his 
servant  Aminadab  attempting  an  operation  for  the  removal 
of  the  birthmark;  but  the  deeper  went  the  knife,  the  deeper 
sank  the  hand,  until  at  length  its  tiny  grasp  appeared  to  have 
caught  hold  of  Georgiana's  heart ;  whence,  however,  her  hus- 
band was  inexorably  resolved  to  cut  or  wrench  it  away. 

When  the  dream  had  shaped  itself  perfectly  in  his  mem- 
ory, Aylmer  sat  in  his  wife's  presence  with  a  guilty  feeling. 
Truth  often  finds  its  way  to  the  mind  close-muffled  in  robes 
of  sleep,  and  then  speaks  with  uncompromising  directness  of 
matters  in  regard  to  which  we  practise  an  unconscious  self- 
deception  during  our  waking  moments.  Until  now  he  had 
not  been  aware  of  the  tyrannising  influence  acquired  by  one 
idea  over  his  mind,  and  of  the  lengths  which  he  might  find 
in  his  heart  to  go  for  the  sake  of  giving  himself  peace. 


THE  BIRTHMARK  3^9 

"  Aylmer,"  resumed  Georgiana,  solemnly,  "  I  know  not 
what  may  be  the  cost  to  both  of  us  to  rid  me  of  this  fatal 
birthmark.  Perhaps  its  removal  may  cause  cureless  deform- 
ity; or  it  may  be  th«  stain  goes  as  deep  as  life  itself.  Again: 
do  we  know  that  there  is  a  possibility,  on  any  terms,  of  un- 
clasping the  firm  gripe  of  this  little  hand  which  was  laid 
upon  me  before  I  came  into  the  world  ?  " 

"  Dearest  Georgiana,  I  have  spent  much  thought  upon  the 
subject,"  hastily  interrupted  Aylmer.  "  I  am  convinced  of 
the  perfect  practicability  of  its  removal." 

"  If  there  be  the  remotest  possibility  of  it,"  continued 
Georgiana,  "  let  the  attempt  be  made,  at  whatever  risk. 
Danger  is  nothing  to  me;  for  life,  while  this  hateful  mark 
makes  me  the  object  of  your  horror  and  disgust — life  is  a 
burden  which  I  would  fling  down  with  joy.  Either  remove 
this  dreadful  hand,  or  take  my  wretched  life !  You  have 
deep  science.  All  the  world  bears  witness  to  it.  You  have 
achieved  great  wonders.  Cannot  you  remove  this  little,  little 
mark,  which  I  cover  with  the  tips  of  two  small  fingers?  Is 
this  beyond  your  power,  for  the  sake  of  your  own  peace,  and 
to  save  your  poor  wife  from  madness?" 

"  Noblest,  dearest,  tenderest  wife,"  cried  Aylmer,  rap- 
turously, "  doubt  not  my  power.  I  have  already  given  this 
matter  the  deepest  thought — thought  which  might  almost 
have  enlightened  me  to  create  a  being  less  perfect  than  your- 
self. Georgiana,  you  have  led  me  deeper  than  ever  into  the 
heart  of  science.  I  feel  myself  fully  competent  to  render  this 
dear  cheek  as  faultless  as  its  fellow ;  and  then,  most  beloved, 
what  will  be  my  triumph  when  I  shall  have  corrected  what 
Nature  left  imperfect  in  her  fairest  work !  Even  Pygmalion, 
when  his  sculptured  woman  assumed  life,  felt  not  greater 
ecstasy  than  mine  will  be." 

"  It  is  resolved,  then,"  said  Georgiana,  faintly  smiling. 
"  And,  Aylmer,  spare  me  not,  though  you  should  find  the 
birthmark  take  refuge  in  my  heart  at  last." 

Her  husband  tenderly  kissed  her  cheek — her  right  cheek 
— not  that  which  bore  the  impress  of  the  crimson  hand. 

The  next  day  Aylmer  apprised  his  wife  of  a  plan  that  he 
had  formed  whereby  he  might  have  opportunity  for  the  in- 
tense thought  and  constant  watchfulness  which  the  proposed 
operation  would  require;  while  Georgiana,  likewise,  would 


3$^  THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

enjoy  the  perfect  repose  essential  to  its  success.  They  were 
to  seclude  themselves  in  the  extensive  apartments  occupied  by 
Aylmer  as  a  laboratory,  and  where,  during  his  toilsome  youth, 
he  had  made  discoveries  in  the  elemental  powers  of  nature 
that  had  roused  the  admiration  of  all  the  learned  societies  in 
Europe.  Seated  calmly  in  this  laboratory,  the  pale  philoso- 
pher had  investigated  the  secrets  of  the  highest  cloud-region 
and  of  the  profoundest  mines;  he  had  satisfied  himself  of  the 
causes  that  kindled  and  kept  alive  the  fires  of  the  volcano; 
and  had  explained  the  mystery  of  fountains,  and  how  it  is 
that  they  gush  forth,  some  so  bright  and  pure,  and  others  with 
such  rich  medicinal  virtues,  from  the  dark  bosom  of  the  earth. 
Here,  too,  at  an  earlier  period,  he  had  studied  the  wonders  of 
the  human  frame,  and  attempted  to  fathom  the  very  process 
by  which  Nature  assimilates  all  her  precious  influences  from 
earth  and  air,  and  from  the  spiritual  world,  to  create  and 
foster  man,  her  masterpiece.  The  latter  pursuit,  however, 
Aylmer  had  long  laid  aside  in  unwilling  recognition  of  the 
truth — against  which  all  seekers  sooner  or  later  stumble — 
that  our  great  creative  Mother,  while  she  amuses  us  with 
apparently  working  in  the  broadest  sunshine,  is  yet  severely 
careful  to  keep  her  own  secrets,  and,  in  spite  of  her  pretended 
openness,  shows  us  nothing  but  results.  She  permits  us,  in- 
deed, to  mar,  but  seldom  to  mend,  and,  like  a  jealous  patentee, 
on  no  account  to  make.  Now,  however,  Aylmer  resumed 
these  half- forgotten  investigations ;  not,  of  course,  with  such 
hopes  or  wishes  as  first  suggested  them,  but  because  they 
involved  much  physiological  truth  and  lay  in  the  path  of  his 
proposed  scheme  for  the  treatment  of  Georgiana. 

As  he  led  her  over  the  threshold  of  the  laboratory  Georgi- 
ana was  cold  and  tremulous.  Aylmer  looked  cheerfully  into 
her  face,  with  intent  to  reassure  her,  but  was  so  startled  with 
the  intense  glow  of  the  birthmark  upon  the  whiteness  of  her 
cheek  that  he  could  not  restrain  a  strong  convulsive  shudder. 
His  wife  fainted. 

"  Aminadab !  Aminadab !"  shouted  Aylmer,  stamping  vio- 
lently on  the  floor. 

Forthwith  there  issued  from  an  inner  apartment  a  man  of 
low  stature,  but  bulky  frame,  with  shaggy  hair  hanging  about 
his  visage,  which  was  grimed  with  the  vapours  of  the  fur- 
nace.   This  personage  had  been  Aylmer's  underworker  during 


THE  BIRTHMARIC  H^ 

• 

his  whole  scientific  career,  and  was  admirably  fitted  for  that 
office  by  his  great  mechanical  readiness,  and  the  skill  with 
which,  while  incapable  of  comprehending  a  single  principle, 
he  executed  all  the  details  of  his  master's  experiments.  With 
his  vast  strength,  his  shaggy  hair,  his  smoky  aspect,  and  the 
indescribable  earthiness  that  encrusted  him,  he  seemed  to 
represent  man's  physical  nature;  while  Aylmer's  slender  fig- 
ure, and  pale,  intellectual  face,  were  no  less  apt  a  type  of 
the  spiritual  element. 

"  Throw  open  the  door  of  the  boudoir,  Aminadab,"  said 
Aylmer,  "  and  burn  a  pastil." 

"  Yes,  master,"  answered  Aminadab,  looking  intently  at 
the  lifeless  form  of  Georgiana ;  and  then  he  muttered  to  him- 
self:  "  If  she  were  my  wife,  I'd  never  part  with  that  birth- 
mark." 

When  Georgiana  recovered  consciousness  she  found  her- 
self breathing  an  atmosphere  of  penetrating  fragrance,  the 
gentle  potency  of  which  had  recalled  her  from  her  deathlike 
faintness.  The  scene  around  her  looked  like  enchantment. 
Aylmer  had  converted  those  smoky,  dingy,  sombre  rooms, 
where  he  had  spent  his  brightest  years  in  recondite  pursuits, 
into  a  series  of  beautiful  apartments  not  unfit  to  be  the  se- 
cluded abode  of  a  lovely  woman.  The  walls  were  hung  with 
gorgeous  curtains,  which  imparted  the  combination  of  gran- 
deur and  grace  that  no  other  species  of  adornment  can 
achieve ;  and,  as  they  fell  from  the  ceiling  to  the  floor,  their 
rich  and  ponderous  folds,  concealing  all  angles  and  straight 
lines,  appeared  to  shut  in  the  scene  from  infinite  space.  For 
aught  Georgiana  knew,  it  might  be  a  pavilion  among  the 
clouds.  And  Aylmer,  excluding  the  sunshine,  which  would 
have  interfered  with  his  chemical  processes,  had  supplied  its 
place  with  perfumed  lamps,  emitting  flames  of  various  hue, 
but  all  uniting  in  a  soft,  empurpled  radiance.  He  now  knelt 
by  his  wife's  side,  watching  her  earnestly,  but  without  alarm ; 
for  he  was  confident  in  his  science,  and  felt  that  he  could 
draw  a  magic  circle  round  her  within  which  no  evil  might 
intrude. 

"  Where  am  I  ?  Ah,  I  remember,"  said  Georgiana,  faint- 
ly; and  she  placed  her  hand  over  her  cheek  to  hide  the 
terrible  mark  from  her  husband's  eyes. 

"  Fear  not,  dearest !  "  exclaimed  he.  "  Do  not  shrink  from 


33^     THE  book:  op  THE  SHORT  STORY 

me !     Believe  me,  Georgiana,  I  even  rejoice  in  this  single 
imperfection,  since  it  will  be  such  a  rapture  to  remove  it." 

"  O  spare  me  !  "  sadly  replied  his  wife.  "  Pray  do  not  look 
at  it  again.     I  never  can  forget  that  convulsive  shudder." 

In  order  to  soothe  Georgiana,  and,  as  it  were,  to  release 
her  mind  from  the  burden  of  actual  things,  Aylmer  now  put 
in  practice  some  of  the  light  and  playful  secrets  which  science 
had  taught  him  among  its  profounder  lore.  Airy  figures, 
absolutely  bodiless  ideas,  and  forms  of  unsubstantial  beauty 
came  and  danced  before  her,  imprinting  their  momentary 
footsteps  on  beams  of  light.  Though  she  had  some  indistinct 
idea  of  the  method  of  these  optical  phenomena,  still  the 
illusion  was  almost  perfect  enough  to  warrant  the  belief  that 
her  husband  possessed  sway  over  the  spiritual  world.  Then 
again,  when  she  felt  a  wish  to  look  forth  from  her  seclusion, 
immediately,  as  if  her  thoughts  were  answered,  the  proces- 
sion of  external  existence  flitted  across  a  screen.  The  scenery 
and  the  figures  of  actual  life  were  perfectly  represented  but 
with  that  bewitching  yet  indescribable  difference  which  al- 
ways makes  a  picture,  an  image,  or  a  shadow  so  much  more 
attractive  than  the  original.  When  wearied  of  this,  Aylmer 
bade  her  cast  her  eyes  upon  a  vessel  containing  a  quantity  of 
earth.  She  did  so,  with  little  interest  at  first;  but  was  soon 
startled  to  perceive  the  germ  of  a  plant  shooting  upward 
from  the  soil.  Then  came  the  slender  stalk ;  the  leaves  grad- 
ually unfolded  themselves ;  and  amid  them  was  a  perfect  and 
lovely  flower. 

"  It  is  magical !  "  cried  Georgiana.    "  I  dare  not  touch  it." 

"  Nay,  pluck  it,"  answered  Aylmer — "  pluck  it,  and  inhale 
its  brief  perfume  while  you  may.  The  flower  will  wither  in 
a  few  moments  and  leave  nothing  save  its  brown  seed-vessels ; 
but  thence  may  be  perpetuated  a  race  as  ephemeral  as  itself." 

But  Georgiana  had  no  sooner  touched  the  flower  than  the 
whole  plant  suffered  a  blight,  its  leaves  turning  coal-black 
as  if  by  the  agency  of  fire. 

"  There  was  too  powerful  a  stimulus,"  said  Aylmer, 
thoughtfully. 

To  make  up  for  this  abortive  experiment,  he  proposed  to 
take  her  portrait  by  a  scientific  process  of  his  own  invention. 
It  was  to  be  effected  by  rays  of  light  striking  upon  a  polished 
plate  of  metal.  Georgiana  assented;  but,  on  looking  at  the 


THE  BIRTHMARK  333 

result,  was  affrighted  to  find  the  features  of  the  portrait 
blurred  and  indefinable;  while  the  minute  figure  of  a  hand 
appeared  where  the  cheek  should  have  been.  Aylmer 
snatched  the  metallic  plate  and  threw  it  into  a  jar  of  cor- 
rosive acid.  • 

Soon,  however,  he  forgot  these  mortifying  failures.  In 
the  intervals  of  study  and  chemical  experiment  he  came  to 
her  flushed  and  exhausted,  but  seemed  invigorated  by  her 
presence,  and  spoke  in  glowing  language  of  the  resources  of 
his  art.  He  gave  a  history  of  the  long  dynasty  of  the  alche- 
mists, who  spent  so  many  ages  in  quest  of  the  universal  sol- 
vent by  which  the  golden  principle  might  be  elicited  from  all 
things  vile  and  base.  Aylmer  appeared  to  believe  that,  by  the 
plainest  scientific  logic,  it  was  altogether  within  the  limits  of 
possibility  to  discover  this  long-sought  medium.  "  But,"  he 
a^ded,  "  a  philosopher  who  should  go  deep  enough  to  acquire 
the  power  would  attain  too  lofty  a  wisdom  to  stoop  to  the 
exercise  of  it."  Not  less  singular  were  his  opinions  in  regard 
to  the  eHxir  vitae.  He  more  than  intimated  that  it  was  at  his 
option  to  concoct  a  liquid  that  should  prolong  life  for  years, 
perhaps  interminably ;  but  that  it  would  produce  a  discord  in 
nature  which  all  the  world,  and  chiefly  the  quaffer  of  the 
immortal  nostrum,  would  find  cause  to  curse. 

"  Aylmer,  are  you  in  earnest  ?  "  asked  Georgiana,  look- 
ing at  him  with  amazement  and  fear.  "  It  is  terrible  to 
possess  such  power,  or  even  to  dream  of  possessing  it." 

"  O,  do  not  tremble,  my  love,"  said  her  husband.  "  I 
would  not  wrong  either  you  or  myself  by  working  such  in- 
harmonious effects  upon  our  lives;  but  I  would  have  you 
consider  how  trifling,  in  comparison,  is  the  skill  requisite  to 
remove  this  little  hand." 

At  the  mention  of  the  birthmark,  Georgiana,  as  usual, 
shrank  as  if  a  red-hot  iron  had  touched  her  cheek. 

Again  Aylmer  applied  himself  to  his  labours.  She  could 
hear  his  voice  in  the  distant  furnace-room  giving  directions 
to  Aminadab,  whose  harsh,  uncouth,  misshapen  tones  were 
audible  in  response,  more  like  the  grunt  or  growl  of  a  brute 
than  human  speech.  After  hours  of  absence,  Aylmer  reap- 
peared and  proposed  that  she  should  now  examine  his  cab- 
inet of  chemical  products  and  natural  treasures  of  the  earth. 
Among  the  former  he  showed  her  a  small  vial,  in  which,  he 


334      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

remarked,  was  contained  a  gentle  yet  most  powerful  fra- 
grance, capable  of  impregnating  all  the  breezes  that  blow 
across  a  kingdom.  They  were  of  inestimable  value,  the  con- 
tents of  that  little  vial ;  and,  as  he  said  so,  he  threw  some  of 
the  perfume  into  the  air  and  *filled  the  room  with  piercing 
and  invigorating  delight. 

"  And  what  is  this  ?  "  asked  Georgiana.  pointing  to  a  small 
crystal  globe  containing  a  gold-coloured  liquid.  "  It  is  so 
beautiful  to  the  eye  that  I  could  imagine  it  the  elixir  of  life." 

"  In  one  sense  it  is/'  replied  Aylmer ;  "  or  rather,  the  elixir 
of  immortality.  It  is  the  most  precious  poison  that  ever  was 
concocted  in  this  world.  By  its  aid  I  could  apportion  the 
lifetime  of  any  mortal  at  whom  you  might  point  your  finger. 
The  strength  of  the  dose  would  determine  whether  he  were  to 
linger  out  years,  or  drop  dead  in  the  midst  of  a  breath.  No 
king  on  his  guarded  throne  could  keep  his  life  if  I,  in  i»y 
private  station,  should  deem  that  the  welfare  of  millions  jus- 
tified me  in  depriving  him  of  it." 

"Why  do  you  keep  such  a  terrific  drug?"  inquired 
Georgiana,  in  horror. 

"  Do  not  mistrust  me,  dearest,"  said  her  husband,  smiling; 
"  its  virtuous  potency  is  yet  greater  than  its  harmful  one. 
But  see  !  here  is  a  powerful  cosmetic.  With  a  few  drops  of 
this  in  a  vase  of  water,  freckles  may  be  washed  away  as 
easily  as  the  hands  are  cleansed.  A  stronger  infusion  would 
take  the  blood  out  of  the  cheek,  and  leave  the  rosiest  beauty 
a  pale  ghost." 

"Is  it  with  this  lotion  that  you  intend  to  bathe  my  cheek?  " 
asked  Georgiana,  anxiously. 

"  O,  no,"  hastily  replied  her  husband;  "  this  is  merely  su- 
perficial.   Your  case  demands  a  remedy  that  shall  go  deeper." 

In  his  interviews  with  Georgiana,  Aylmer  generally  made 
minute  inquiries  as  to  her  sensations,  and  whether  the  con- 
finement of  the  rooms  and  the  temperature  of  the  atmos- 
ph<jre  agreed  with  her.  These  questions  had  such  a  particular 
drift  that  Georgiana  began  to  conjecture  that  she  was  already 
subjected  to  certain  physical  influences,  either  breathed  in 
with  the  fragrant  air  or  taken  with  her  food.  She  fancied 
likewise,  but  it  might  be  altogether  fancy,  that  there  was  a 
stirring  up  of  her  system — a  strange,  indefinite  sensation 
creeping  through  her  veins,  and  tingling,  half  painfully,  half 


THE  BIRTHMARK  335 

pleasurably,  at  her  heart.  Still,  whenever  she  dared  to  look 
into  the  mirror,  there  she  beheld  herself  pale  as  a  white  rose 
and  with  the  crimson  birthmark  stamped  upon  her  cheek. 
Not  even  Aylmer  now  hated  it  so  much  as  she. 

To  dispel  the  tedium  of  the  hours  which  her  husband  found 
it  necessary  to  devote  to  the  processes  of  combination  and 
analysis,  Georgiana  turned  over  the  volumes  of  his  scientific 
library.  In  many  dark  old  tomes  she  met  with  chapters  full 
of  romance  and  poetry.  They  were  the  works  of  the  philoso- 
phers of  the  Middle  Ages,  such  as  Albertus  Magnus,  Cor- 
nelius Agrippa,  Paracelsus,  and  the  famous  friar  who  created 
the  prophetic  Brazen  Head.  All  these  antique  naturalists 
stood  in  advance  of  their  centuries,  yet  were  imbued  with 
some  of  their  credulity,  and  therefore  were  believed,  and  per- 
haps imagined  themselves  to  have  acquired  from  the  investi- 
gation of  nature  a  power  above  nature,  and  from  physics  a 
sway  over  the  spiritual  world.  Hardly  less  curious  and  im- 
aginative were  the  early  volumes  of  the  Transactions  of 
the  Royal  Society,  in  which  the  members,  knowing  little  of 
the  limits  of  natural  possibility,  were  continually  recording 
wonders  or  proposing  methods  whereby  wonders  might  be 
wrought. 

But,  to  Georgiana,  the  most  engrossing  volume  was  a  large 
folio  from  her  husband's  own  hand,  in  which  he  had  recorded 
every  experiment  of  his  scientific  career,  its  original  aim, 
the  methods  adopted  for  its  development,  and  its  final  suc- 
cess or  failure,  with  the  circumstances  to  which  either  event 
was  attributable.  The  book,  in  truth,  was  both  the  history 
and  emblem  of  his  ardent,  ambitious,  imaginative,  yet  prac- 
tical and  laborious  life.  He  handled  physical  details  as  if 
there  were  nothing  beyond  them;  yet  spiritualised  them  all, 
and  redeemed  himself  from  materialism  by  his  strong  and 
eager  aspiration  towards  the  infinite.  In  his  grasp  the  veriest 
clod  of  earth  assumed  a  soul.  Georgiana,  as  she  read,  rever- 
enced Aylmer  and  loved  him  more  profoundly  than  ever,  but 
with  a  less  entire  dependence  on  his  judgment  than  heretofore. 
Much  as  he  had  accomplished,  she  could  not  but  observe  that 
his  most  splendid  successes  were  almost  invariably  failures,  if 
compared  with  the  ideal  at  which  he  aimed.  His  brightest 
diamonds  were  the  merest  pebbles,  and  felt  to  be  so  by  him- 
self,   in   comparison   with   the  inestimable  gems  which  lay 


33^      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

hidden  beyond  his  reach.  The  volume,  rich  with  achieve- 
ments that  had  won  renown  for  its  author,  was  yet  as  melan- 
choly a  record  as  ever  mortal  hand  had  penned.  It  was  the 
sad  confession  and  continual  exemplification  of  the  short- 
comings of  the  composite  man,  the  spirit  burdened  with  clay 
and  working  in  matter,  and  of  the  despair  that  assails  the 
higher  nature  at  finding  itself  so  miserably  thwarted  by  the 
earthly  part.  Perhaps  every  man  of  genius,  in  whatever 
sphere,  might  recognise  the  image  of  his  own  experience  in 
Aylmer's  journal. 

So  deeply  did  these  reflections  affect  Georgiana  that  she 
laid  her  face  upon  the  open  volume  and  burst  into  tears.  In 
this  situation  she  was  found  by  her  husband. 

"  It  is  dangerous  to  read  in  a  sorcerer's  books,"  said  he 
with  a  smile,  though  his  countenance  was  uneasy  and  dis- 
pleased. "  Georgiana,  there  are  pages  in  that  volume  which 
I  can  scarcely  glance  over  and  keep  my  senses.  Take  heed 
lest  it  prove  as  detrimental  to  you." 

"  It  has  made  me  worship  you  more  than  ever,"  said  she. 

"  Ah,  wait  for  this  one  success,"  rejoined  he,  "  then  wor- 
ship me  if  you  will.  I  shall  deem  myself  hardly  unworthy  of 
it.  But  come,  I  have  sought  you  for  the  luxury  of  your 
voice.    Sing  to  me,  dearest." 

So  she  poured  out  the  liquid  music  of  her  voice  to  quench 
the  thirst  of  his  spirit.  He  then  took  his  leave  with  a  boyish 
exuberance  of  gaiety,  assuring  her  that  her  seclusion  would 
endure  but  a  little  longer,  and  that  the  result  was  already 
certain.  Scarcely  had  he  departed  when  Georgiana  felt  irre- 
sistibly impelled  to  follow  him.  She  had  forgotten  to  inform 
Aylmer  of  a  symptom  which  for  two  or  three  hours  past  had 
begun  to  excite  her  attention.  It  was  a  sensation  in  the  fatal 
birthmark,  not  painful,  but  which  induced  a  restlessness 
throughout  her  system.  Hastening  after  her  husband,  she 
intruded  for  the  first  time  into  the  laboratory. 

The  first  thing  that  struck  her  eye  was  the  furnace,  that 
hot  and  feverish  worker,  with  the  intense  glow  of  its  fire, 
which  by  the  quantities  of  soot  clustered  above  it  seemed  to 
have  been  burning  for  ages.  There  was  a  distilling-apparatus 
in  full  operation.  Around  the  room  were  retorts,  tubes,  cylin- 
ders, crucibles,  and  other  apparatus  of  chemical  research. 
An  electrical  machine  stood  ready  for  immediate  use.    The 


THE  BIRTHMARK  337 

atmosphere  felt  oppressively  close,  and  was  tainted  with 
gaseous  odours  which  had  been  tormented  forth  by  the  proc- 
esses of  science.  The  severe  and  homely  simplicity  of  the 
apartment,  with  its  naked  walls  and  brick  pavement,  looked 
strange,  accustomed  as  Georgiana  had  become  to  the  fantas- 
tic elegance  of  her  boudoir.  But  what  chiefly,  indeed  almost 
solely,  drew  her  attention  was  the  aspect  of  Aylmer  himself. 

He  was  pale  as  death,  anxious  and  absorbed,  and  hung 
over  the  furnace  as  if  it  depended  upon  his  utmost  watchful- 
ness whether  the  liquid  which  it  was  distilling  should  be  the 
draught  of  immortal  happiness  or  misery.  How  different 
from  the  sanguine  and  joyous  mien  that  he  had  assumed  for 
Georgiana's  encouragement ! 

"  Carefully  now,  Aminadab ;  carefully,  thou  human  ma- 
chine; carefully,  thou  man  of  clay,"  muttered  Aylmer,  more 
to  himself  than  his  assistant.  "  Now,  if  there  be  a  thought 
too  much  or  too  little,  it  is  all  over." 

"  Ho  !  ho  !  "  mumbled  Aminadab.    "  Look,  master  !  look  !  " 

Aylmer  raised  his  eyes  hastily,  and  at  first  reddened,  then 
grew  paler  than  ever,  on  beholding  Georgiana.  He  rushed 
towards  her  and  seized  her  arm  with  a  gripe  that  left  the 
print  of  his  fingers  upon  it. 

"  Why  do  you  come  hither  ?  Have  you  no  trust  in  your 
husband  ?  "  cried  he,  impetuously.  "  Would  you  throw  the 
blight  of  that  fatal  birthmark  over  my  labours  ?  It  is  not  well 
done.    Go,  prying  woman  !  go  !  " 

"  Nay,  Aylmer,"  said  Georgiana,  with  the  firmness  of 
which  she  possessed  no  stinted  endowment,  "  it  is  not  you 
that  have  a  right  to  complain.  You  mistrust  your  wife ;  you 
have  concealed  the  anxiety  with  which  you  watch  the  devel- 
opment of  this  experiment.  Think  not  so  unworthily  of  me, 
my  husband.  Tell  me  all  the  risk  we  run,  and  fear  not  that 
I  shall  shrink ;  for  my  share  in  it  is  far  less  than  your  own." 

"  No,  no,  Georgiana  !  "  said  Aylmer,  impatiently ;  "  it  must 
not  be." 

"  I  submit,"  replied  she,  calmly.  "  And,  Aylmer,  I  shall 
quaff  whatever  draught  you  bring  me;  but  it  will  be  on  the 
same  principle  that  would  induce  me  to  take  a  dose  of  poison 
if  offered  by  your  hand." 

"  My  noble  wife,"  said  Aylmer,  deeply  moved,  "  I  knew 
not  the  height  and  depth  of  your  nature  until  now.    Nothing 


33^      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

shall  be  concealed.  Know,  then,  that  this  crimson  hand, 
superficial  as  it  seems,  has  clutched  its  grasp  into  your  being 
with  a  strength  of  which  I  had  no  previous  conception.  I 
have  already  administered  agents  powerful  enough  to  do 
•aught  except  to  change  your  entire  physical  system.  Only 
one  thing  remains  to  be  tried.    If  that  fail  us  we  are  ruined." 

"  Why  did  you  hesitate  to  tell  me  this  ?  "  asked  she. 

"  Because,  Georgiana,"  said  Aylmer,  in  a  low  voice, 
"  there  is  danger." 

"  Danger  ?  There  is  but  one  danger — that  this  horrible 
stigma  shall  be  left  upon  my  cheek  !  "  cried  Georgiana.  "  Re- 
move it,  remove  it,  whatever  be  the  cost,  or  we  shall  both 
go  mad !  " 

"  Heaven  knows  your  words  are  too  true,"  said  Aylmer, 
sadly.  "  And  now,  dearest,  return  to  your  boudoir.  In  a 
little  while  all  will  be  tested." 

He  conducted  her  back  and  took  leave  of  her  with  a  sol- 
emn tenderness  which  spoke  far  more  than  his  words  how 
much  was  now  at  stake.  After  his  departure  Georgiana  be- 
came rapt  in  musings.  She  considered  the  character  of 
Aylmer,  and  did  it  completer  justice  than  at  any  previous 
moment.  Her  heart  exulted,  while  it  trembled,  at  his  honour- 
able love — so  pure  and  lofty  that  it  would  accept  nothing  less 
than  perfection,  nor  miserably  make  itself  contented  with  an 
earthlier  nature  than  he  had  dreamed  of.  She  felt  how  much 
more  precious  was  such  a  sentiment  than  that  meaner  kind 
which  would  have  borne  with  the  imperfection  for  her  sake, 
and  have  been  guilty  of  treason  to  holy  love  by  degrading  its 
perfect  idea  to  the  level  of  the  actual;  and  with  her  whole 
spirit  she  prayed  that,  for  a  single  moment,  she  might  satisfy 
his  highest  and  deepest  conception.  Longer  than  one  mo- 
ment she  well  knew  it  could  not  be ;  for  his  spirit  was  ever  on 
the  march,  ever  ascending,  and  each  instant  required  some- 
thing that  was  beyond  the  scope  of  the  instant  before. 

The  sound  of  her  husband's  footsteps  aroused  her.  He 
bore  a  crystal  goblet  containing  a  liquor  colourless  as  water, 
but  bright  enough  to  be  the  draught  of  immortality.  Aylmer 
was  pale ;  but  it  seemed  rather  the  consequence  of  a  highly- 
wrought  state  of  mind  and  tension  of  spirit  than  of  fear  or 
doubt. 

"The  concoction  of  the  draught  has  been  perfect/'  s?iid 


THE  BIRTHMARK  339 

he,  in  answer  to  Georgiana's  look.  "  Unless  all  my  science 
have  deceived  me,  it  cannot  fail." 

"  Save  on  your  account,  my  dearest  Aylmer,"  observed  his 
wife,  "  I  might  wish  to  put  off  this  birthmark  of  mortality  by 
relinquishing  mortality  itself  in  preference  to  any  other  mode. 
Life  is  but  a  sad  possession  to  those  who  have  attained  pre- 
cisely the  degree  of  moral  advancement  at  which  I  stand. 
Were  I  weaker  and  blinder,  it  might  be  happiness.  Were  I 
stronger,  it  might  be  endured  hopefully.  But,  being  what  I 
find  myself,  methinks  I  am  of  all  mortals  the  most  fit  to  die." 

"  You  are  fit  for  heaven  without  tasting  death  !  "  replied 
her  husband.  "  But  why  do  we  speak  of  dying?  The  draught 
cannot  fail.     Behold  its  effect  upon  this  plant." 

On  the  window-seat  there  stood  a  geranium  diseased  with 
yellow  blotches,  which  had  overspread  all  its  leaves.  Aylmer 
poured  a  small  quantity  of  the  liquid  upon  the  soil  in  which  it 
grew.  In  a  little  time,  when  the  roots  of  the  plant  had  taken 
up  the  moisture,  the  unsightly  blotches  began  to  be  extin- 
guished in  a  living  verdure. 

''  There  needed  no  proof,"  said  Georgiana,  quietly.  "  Give 
me  the  goblet.     I  joyfully  stake  all  upon  your  word." 

"  Drink,  then,  thou  lofty  creature !  "  exclaimed  Aylmer, 
with  fervid  admiration.  "  There  is  no  taint  of  imperfection 
on  thy  spirit.  Thy  sensible  frame,  too,  shall  soon  be  all 
perfect." 

She  quaffed  the  liquid  and  returned  the  goblet  to  his 
hand. 

"  It  is  grateful,"  said  she,  with  a  placid  smile.  "  Me- 
thinks it  is  like  water  from  a  heavenly  fountain;  for  it  con- 
tains I  know  not  what  of  unobtrusive  fragrance  and  delicious- 
ness.  It  allays  a  feverish  thirst  that  had  parched  me  for 
many  days.  Now,  dearest,  let  me  sleep.  My  earthly  senses 
are  closing  over  my  spirit  like  the  leaves  around  the  heart 
of  a  rose  at  sunset." 

She  spoke  the  last  words  with  a  gentle  reluctance,  as  if  it 
required  almost  more  energy  than  she  could  command  to 
pronounce  the  faint  and  lingering  syllables.  Scarcely  had 
they  loitered  through  her  lips  ere  she  was  lost  in  slumber. 
Aylmer  sat  by  her  side,  watching  her  aspect  with  the  emotions 
proper  to  a  man,  the  whole  value  of  whose  existence  was  in- 
volved in  the  process  now  to  be  tested.     Mingled  with  this 


346     THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

mood,  however,  was  the  philosophic  investigation  charactef- 
istic  of  the  man  of  science.  Not  the  minutest  symptom 
escaped  him.  A  heightened  flush  of  the  cheek,  a  slight  irregu- 
larity of  breath,  a  quiver  of  the  eyelid,  a  hardly  perceptible 
tremor  through  the  frame — such  were  the  details  which,  as 
the  moments  passed,  he  wrote  down  in  his  folio  volume.  In- 
tense thought  had  set  its  stamp  upon  every  previous  page  of 
that  volume ;  but  the  thoughts  of  years  were  all  concentrated 
upon  the  last. 

While  thus  employed,  he  failed  not  to  gaze  often  at  the 
fatal  hand,  and  not  without  a  shudder.  Yet  once,  by  a  strange 
and  unaccountable  impulse,  he  pressed  it  with  his  lips.  His 
spirit  recoiled,  however,  in  the  very  act ;  and  Georgiana,  out 
of  the  midst  of  her  deep  sleep,  moved  uneasily  and  murmured, 
as  if  in  remonstrance.  Again  Aylmer  resumed  his  watch. 
Nor  was  it  without  avail.  The  crimson  hand,  which  at  first 
had  been  strongly  visible  upon  the  marble  paleness  of  Georgi- 
ana's  cheek,  now  grew  more  faintly  outlined.  She  remained 
not  less  pale  than  ever ;  but  the  birthmark,  with  every  breath 
that  came  and  went,  lost  somewhat  of  its  former  distinctness. 
Its  presence  had  been  awful;  its  departure  was  more  awful 
still.  Watch  the  stain  of  the  rainbow  fading  out  of  the  sky, 
and  you  will  know  how  that  mysterious  symbol  passed  away. 

"  By  Heaven  !  it  is  well-nigh  gone  !  "  said  Aylmer  to  him- 
self, in  almost  irrepressible  ecstasy.  "  I  can  scarcely  trace  it 
now.  Success  !  success  !  And  now  it  is  like  the  faintest  rose- 
colour.  The  lightest  flush  of  blood  across  her  cheek  would 
overcome  it.    But  she  is  so  pale  !  " 

He  drew  aside  the  window-curtain  and  suffered  the  light 
of  natural  day  to  fall  into  the  room  and  rest  upon  her  cheek. 
At  the  same  time  he  heard  a  gross,  hoarse  chuckle,  which 
he  had  long  known  as  his  servant  Aminadab's  expression  of 
delight. 

"  Ah,  clod  !  ah,  earthly  mass  !  "  cried  Aylmer,  laughing  in 
a  sort  of  frenzy,  "  you  have  served  me  well !  Matter  and 
spirit — earth  and  heaven — have  both  done  their  part  in  this ! 
Laugh,  thing  of  the  senses !  You  have  earned  the  right  to 
laugh." 

These  exclamations  broke  Georgiana's  sleep.  She  slowly 
unclosed  her  eyes  and  gazed  into  the  mirror  which  her  hus- 
band had  arranged  for  that  purpose.     A  faint  smile  flitted 


THE  BIRTHMARK  34» 

over  her  lips  when  she  recognised  how  barely  perceptible 
was  now  that  crimson  hand  which  had  once  blazed  forth  with 
such  disastrous  brilliancy  as  to  scare  away  all  their  happiness. 
But  then  her  eyes  sought  Aylmer's  face  with  a  trouble  and 
anxiety  that  he  could  by  no  means  account  for. 

"  My  poor  Aylmer !  "  murmured  she. 

"  Poor  ?  Nay,  richest,  happiest,  most  favoured  !  "  ex- 
claimed he.  "  My  peerless  bride,  it  is  successful !  You  are 
perfect !  "  ' 

"  My  poor  Aylmer,"  she  repeated,  with  a  more  than  human 
tenderness,  "you  have  aimed  loftily;  you  have  done  nobly. 
Do  not  repent  that,  with  so  high  and  pure  a  feeling,  you  have 
rejected  the  best  the  earth  could  offer.  Aylmer,  dearest  Ayl- 
mer, I  am  dying !  " 

Alas  !  it  was  too  true  !  The  fatal  hand  had  grappled  with 
the  mystery  of  life,  and  was  the  bond  by  which  an  angelic 
spirit  kept  itself  in  union  with  a  mortal  frame.  As  the  last 
crimson  tint  of  the  birthmark — that  sole  token  of  human  im- 
perfection— faded  from  her  cheek,  the  parting  breath  of  the 
now  perfect  woman  passed  into  the  atmosphere,  and  her  soul, 
lingering  a  moment  near  her  husband,  took  its  heavenward 
flight.  Then  a  hoarse,  chuckling  laugh  was  heard  again ! 
Thus  ever  does  the  gross  fatality  of  earth  exult  in  its  in- 
variable triumph  over  the  immortal  essence  which>  in  this 
dim  sphere  of  half-development,  demands  the  completeness 
of  a  higher  state.  Yet,  had  Aylmer  reached  a  profounder 
wisdom,  he  need  not  thus  have  flung  away  the  happiness 
which  would  have  woven  his  mortal  life  of  the  selfsame 
texture  with  the  celestial.  The  momentary  circumstance  was 
too  strong  for  him ;  he  failed  to  look  beyond  the  shadowy 
scope  of  time,  and,  living  once  for  all  in  eternity,  to  find  the 
perfect  future  in  the  present 


A    LIST    OF    REPRESENTATIVE    TALES    AND 
SHORT   STORIES 

XIV 

i860  TO    1870: 

Contes  Fantastiques,  Erckmann-Chatrian  (i860). 

Contes  de  la  Montagne,  Erckmann-Chatrian  (i860). 

First  Love,  Ivan  Turgeneff  (i860). 

Smaastykker,  B.  Bjornson  (i860). 

Popular    Tales    of    the    West    Highlands,    J.    F.    Campbell 

(1860-62). 
The  Invaders,  Lyof  Tolstoy  (1861). 
Contes  du  Bord  du  Rhin,  Erckmann-Chatrian  (1862). 
The  Man  Without  a  Country,  Edward  Everett  Hale  (1863). 
Cousin    Phillis,   Mrs.  Gaskell    (1863-64). 
Contes  a  Ninon,  Emile  Zola   (1864-1874). 
Contes  Bleus,  E.  R.  L.  de  Laboulaye  (1864-1865). 
Mugby  Junction,  Charles  Dickens   (1866). 
Contes   Populaires,  Erckmann-Chatrian    (1866). 
The   Jumping   Frog   of    Calaveras   County,    S.    L.    Clemens 

(1867). 
The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp,   Bret  Harte   (1868). 
Leyendas  Espafiolas,   G.  A.   Becquer    (1868). 
La  Vita  Militaire,  Edmondo  de  Amicis  (1868). 
Les  Mariages  de  Province,  Edmond  About  (1868). 
Lokis,   Prosper  Merimee    (1869). 
The  Outcasts  of  Poker  Flat,  Bret  Harte   (1869). 
Lettres   de   mon  Moulin,  Alphonse   Daudet    (1869). 

343 


THE   CASK  OF   AMONTILLADO 


THE  CASK  OF  AMONTILLADO 

The  Cask  of  Amontillado,  by  Edgar  Allan  Poe 
(1809-1849),  was  first  published  in  the  November, 
1846,  number  of  Godey's  Lady's  Book.  Poe's  first  col- 
lection of  Short  Stories,  Tales  of  the  Grotesque  and  Ara- 
besque, had  appeared  in  1840. 

The  Cask  of  Amontillado,  as  Edmund  Clarence  Sted- 
man  has  said,  "  paints  with  a  few  strokes  all  that  has 
been  conceived  of  Roman  pride  and  vengeance."  It  is 
a  story  in  Poe's  most  characteristic  manner,  and  unites, 
as  perhaps  no  other  one  of  his  fictions  does,  both  his 
chief  merits  and  his  particular  defects,  though  the  latter 
are  by  no  means  in  the  ascendant.  Poe's  name  will  doubt- 
less be  ever  intimately  associated  with  the  progress  of  the 
Short  Story.  He  was  in  many  respects  an  innovator.  In 
view  of  the  fact  that  Prosper  Merimee  published  some  of 
his  best  Short  Stories  in  1829,  however,  neither  Poe  nor 
Hawthorne  can  justly  be  called  the  father  of  the  modern 
Short  Story.  Yet  in  that  realm  of  Terror  and  Unreason 
which  Poe  made  peculiarly  his  own,  he  may  still  be 
accounted  the  greatest  if  not  the  first.  An  interesting 
comparison  may  be  made  between  Poe's  The  Cask  of 
Amontillado  and  Balzac's  La  Grande  Breteche ;  both  are 
based  on  somewhat  similar  situations. 

Among  the  best  of  Poe's  stories  may  be  mentioned: 
MS.  Found  in  a  Bottle  (1833),  The  Assignation  (1835), 
Ligeia  (1838),  The  Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher  (1839), 
The  Murders  in  the  Rue  Morgue  (1841),  A  Descent  into 
the  Maelstrom  (1841),  The  Masque  of  the  Red  Death 
(1842),  Eleonora   (1842),  The  Pit  and  the  Pendulum 

347 


348  THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

(1843),  The  Gold-Bug  (1843),  The  Black  Cat  (1843), 
The  Purloined  Letter  (1845),  and  The  Cask  of  Amontil- 
lado (1846). 

AUTHORITIES  I 

Edgar  Allan  Poe,  by  William  P.  Trent  (English  Men 
of  Letters  series). 

Edgar  Allan  Poe  (revised  edition),  by  George  E. 
Woodberry  (American  Men  of  Letters  series). 

Introduction,  by  Charles  Baudelaire,  to  his  transla- 
tion of  Poe's  works  (Paris:  1856). 

Life  and  Letters  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  by  James  A. 
Harrison. 

The  Short  Story  in  English,  by  Henry  Seidel  Canby 
(Chapter  XI). 


THE   CASK   OF   AMONTILLADO 

The  thousand  injuries  of  Fortunato  I  had  borne  as  I  best 
could ;  but  when  he  ventured  upon  insult,  I  vowed  revenge. 
You,  who  so  well  know  the  nature  of  my  soul,  will  not  sup- 
pose, however,  that  I  gave  utterance  to  a  threat.  At  length 
I  would  be  avenged;  this  was  a  point  definitely  settled— 
but  the  very  definitiveness  with  which  it  was  resolved  pre- 
cluded the  idea  of  risk.  I  must  not  only  punish,  but  punish 
with  impunity.  A  wrong  is  unredressed  when  retribution 
overtakes  its  redresser.  It  is  equally  unredressed  when  the 
avenger  •  fails  to  make  himself  felt  as  such  to  him  who  has 
done  the  wrong. 

It  must  be  understood  that  neither  by  word  nor  deed  had 
I  given  Fortunato  cause  to  doubt  my  good-will.  I  continued, 
as  was  my  wont,  to  smile  in  his  face,  and  he  did  not  perceive 
that  my  smile  now  was  at  the  thought  of  his  immolation. 

He  had  a  weak  point — this  Fortunato — although  in  other 
regards  he  was  a  man  to  be  respected  and  even  feared.  He 
prided  himself  on  his  connoisseurship  in  wine.  Few  Italians 
have  the  true  virtuoso  spirit.  For  the  most  part  their  enthu- 
siasm is  adopted  to  suit  the  time  and  opportunity — to  practise 
imposture  upon  the  British  and  Austrian  millionaires.  In 
painting  and  gemmary,  Fortunato,  Hke  his  countrymen,  was 
a  quack — but  in  the  matter  of  old  wines  he  was  sincere.  In 
this  respect  I  did  not  differ  from  him  materially :  I  was  skil- 
ful in  the  Italian  vintages  myself,  and  bought  largely  when- 
ever I  could. 

It  was  about  dusk,  one  evening  during  the  supreme  mad- 
ness of  the  carnival  season,  that  I  encountered  my  friend. 
He  accosted  me  with  excessive  warmth,  for  he  had  been 
drinking  much.  The  man  wore  motley.  He  had  on  a  tight- 
fitting  party-striped  dress,  and  his  head  was  surmounted  by 
the  conical  cap  and  bells.  I  was  so  pleased  to  see  him  that 
I  thought  I  should  n^ver  have  done  wringing  his  hand. 

I  said  to  him :  "  My  dear  Fortunato,  you  are  luckily  met. 

349 


350  THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

How  remarkably  well  you  are  looking  to-day !  But  I  have 
received  a  pipe  of  what  passes  for  Amontillado,  and  I  have 
my  doubts." 

"  How  ?  "  said  he.  "  Amontillado  ?  A  pipe  ?  Impossible  ! 
And  in  the  middle  of  the  carnival !  " 

"  I  have  my  doubts,"  I  replied ;  "  and  I  was  silly  enough 
to  pay  the  full  Amontillado  price  without  consulting  you  in 
the  matter.  You  were  not  to  be  found,  and  I  was  fearful 
of  losing  a  bargain." 

"  Amontillado !  " 

"  I  have  my  doubts." 

"  Amontillado !  " 

"  And  I  must  satisfy  them." 

"  Amontillado !  " 

"  As  you  are  engaged,  I  am  on  my  way  to  Luchesi.  If 
any  one  has  a  critical  turn,  it  is  he.    He  will  tell  me " 

"  Luchesi  cannot  tell  Amontillado  from  Sherry." 

"  And  yet  some  fools  will  have  it  that  his  taste  is  a  match 
for  your  own." 

"  Come,  let  us  go." 

"Whither?" 

"  To  your  vaults." 

"  My  friend,  no ;  I  will  not  impose  upon  your  good  nature. 
I  perceive  you  have  an  engagement.     Luchesi " 

"  I  have  no  engagement — come." 

"  My  friend,  no.  It  is  not  the  engagement,  but  the  severe 
cold  with  which  I  perceive  you  are  afflicted.  The  vaults  are 
insufferably  damp.     They  are  encrusted  with  nitre." 

"  Let  us  go,  nevertheless.  The  cold  is  merely  nothing. 
Amontillado !  You  have  been  imposed  upon.  And  as  for 
Luchesi,  he  cannot  distinguish  Sherry  from  Amontillado." 

Thus  speaking,  Fortunato  possessed  himself  of  my  arm. 
Putting  on  a  mask  of  black  silk,  and  drawing  a  roquelaure 
closely  about  my  person,  I  suffered  him  to  hurry  me  to  my 
palazzo. 

There  were  no  attendants  at  home ;  they  had  absconded  to 
make  merry  in  honour  of  the  time.  I  had  told  them  that  I 
should  not  return  until  the  morning,  and  had  given  them 
explicit  orders  not  to  stir  from  the  house.  These  orders  were 
sufficient,  I  well  knew,  to  insure  their  in7mediate  disappear- 
ance, one  and  all,  as  soon  as  my  back  was  turned. 


THE  CASK  OF  AMONTILLADO  35  ^ 

I  took  from  their  sconces  two  flambeaux,  and  giving  one 
to  Fortunato,  bowed  him  through  several  suites  of  rooms  to 
the  archway  that  led  into  the  vaults.  I  passed  down  a  long 
and  winding  staircase,  requesting  him  to  be  cautious  as  he 
followed.  We  came  at  length  to  the  foot  of  the  descent,  and 
stood  together  on  the  damp  ground  of  the  catacombs  of  the 
Montresors. 

The  gait  of  my  friend  was  unsteady,  and  the  bells  upon 
his  cap  jingled  as  he  strode. 

*'  The  pipe,"  said  he. 

"  It  is  farther  on,"  said  I ;  "  but  observe  the  white  web- 
work  which  gleams  from  these  cavern  walls." 

He  turned  towards  me,  and  looked  into  my  eyes  with  two 
filmy  orbs  that  distilled  the  rheum  of  intoxication. 

"  Nitre?  "  he  asked,  at  length. 

"  Nitre,"  I  replied.  "  How  long  have  you  had  that 
cough  ?  " 

"  Ugh  !  ugh  !  ugh  ! — ugh  !  ugh  !  ugh  ! — ugh  !  ugh  !  ugh  !-^ 
ugh  !  ugh  !  ugh  ! — ugh  !  ugh  !  ugh  !  " 

My  poor  friend  found  it  impossible  to  reply  for  many 
minutes. 

"  It  is  nothing,"  he  said  at  last. 

"  Come,"  I  said,  with  decision,  "  we  will  go  back ;  your 
health  is  precious.  You  are  rich,  respected,  admired,  be- 
loved; you  are  happy,  as  once  I  was.  You  are  a  man  to  be 
missed.  For  me  it  is  no  matter.  We  will  go  back ;  you  will 
be  ill,  and  I  cannot  be  responsible.  Besides,  there  is  Lu- 
chesi " 

"Enough,"  he  said:  "the  cough  is  a  mere  nothing;  it 
will  not  kill  me.     I  shall  not  die  of  a  cough." 

"  True — true,"  I  replied ;  "  and,  indeed,  I  had  no  intention 
of  alarming  you  unnecessarily — but  you  should  use  all  proper 
caution.  A  draught  of  this  Medoc  will  defend  us  from  the 
damps." 

Here  I  knocked  off  the  neck  of  a  bottle  which  I  drew 
from  a  long  row  of  its  fellows  that  lay  upon  the  mould. 

"  Drink,"  I  said,  presenting  him  the  wine. 

He  raised  it  to  his  lips  with  a  leer.  He  paused  and  nodded 
to  me  familiarly,  while  his  bells  jingled. 

"  I  drink,"  he  said,  "  to  the  buried  that  repose  around 
us," 


352      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

"And  I  to  your  long  life." 

He  again  took  my  arm,  and  we  proceeded. 

"  These  vaults,"  he  said,  "  are  extensive." 

"  The  Montresors,"  I  replied,  "  were  a  great  and  numerous 
family." 

"  I  forget  your  arms." 

"  A  huge  human  foot   d'or,  in   a  field  azure ;   the  foot 
crushes   a  serpent  rampant  whose  fangs  are  embedded  in 
the  heel." 
"And  the  motto?" 

"  Nemo  me  impune  lacessit"      '^'^ ""  ^   '' 
Good !     he  said.  ^      ^ 

The  wine  sparkled  in  his  eyes  and  the  bells  jingled.  My 
own  fancy  grew  warm  with  the  Medoc.  We  had  passed 
through  walls  of  piled  bones,  with  casks  and  puncheons  inter- 
mingling, into  the  inmost  recesses  of  the  catacombs.  I  paused 
again,  and  this  time  I  made  bold  to  seize  Fortunato  by  an 
arm  above  the  elbow. 

"  The  nitre !  "  I  said ;  "  see,  it  increases.  It  hangs  like 
moss  upon  the  vaults.  We  are  below  the  river's  bed.  The 
drops  of  moisture  trickle  among  the  bones.  Come,  we  will 
go  back  ere  it  is  too  late.    Your  cough " 

"  It  is  nothing,"  he  said ;  "  let  us  go  on.  But  first,  another 
draught  of  the  Medoc." 

I  broke  and  reached  him  a  flagon  of  De  Grave.  He  emp- 
tied it  at  a  breath.  His  eyes  flashed  with  a  fierce  light.  He 
laughed,  and  threw  the  bottle  upward  with  a  gesticulation  I 
did  not  understand. 

I  looked  at  him  in  surprise.  He  repeated  the  movement 
— a  grotesque  one. 

"  You  do  not  comprehend  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Not  I,"  I  replied. 

"  Then  you  are  not  of  the  brotherhood." 

"How?" 

"  You  are  not  of  the  masons." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  I  said,  "  yes,  yes." 

"  You  ?     Impossible  !    A  mason  ?  " 

"  A  mason,"  I  replied. 

"  A  sign,"  he  said. 

"  It  is  this,"  I  answered,  producing  a  trowel  from  beneath 
the  folds  of  mv  roquelaur?. 


THE  CASK  OF  AMONTILLADO  353 

"  You  jest,"  he  exclaimed,  recoiling  a  few  paces.  "  But 
let  us  proceed  to  the  Amontillado." 

"  Be  it  so,"  I  said,  replacing  the  tool  beneath  the  cloak, 
and  again  offering  him  my  arm.  He  leaned  upon  it  heavily. 
We  continued  our  route  in  search  of  the  Amontillado.  We 
passed  through  a  range  of  low  arches,  descended,  passed  on, 
and,  descending  again,  arrived  at  a  deep  crypt,  in  which  the 
foulness  of  the  air  caused  our  flambeaux  rather  to  glow  than 
flame. 

At  the  most  remote  end  of  the  crypt  there  appeared  an- 
other less  spacious.  Its  walls  had  been  Hned  with  human 
remains,  piled  to  the  vault  overhead,  in  the  fashion  of  the 
great  catacombs  of  Paris.  Three  sides  of  this  interior  crypt 
were  still  ornamented  in  this  manner.  From  the  fourth  the 
bones  had  been  thrown  down,  and  lay  promiscuously  upon  the 
earth,  forming  at  one  point  a  mound  of  some  size.  Within 
the  wall  thus  exposed  by  the  displacing  of  the  bones  we  per- 
ceived a  still  interior  recess,  in  depth  about  four  feet,  in  width 
three,  in  height  six  or  seven.  It  seemed  to  have  been  con- 
structed for  no  especial  use  within  itself,  but  formed  merely 
the  interval  between  two  of  the  colossal  supports  of  the  roof 
of  the  catacombs,  and  was  backed  by  one  of  their  circum- 
scribing walls  of  solid  granite. 

it  was  in  vain  that  Fortunato,  uplifting  his  dull  torch, 
endeavoured  to  pry  into  the  depth  of  the  recess.  Its  termi- 
nation the  feeble  light  did  not  enable  us  to  see. 

"Proceed,"  I  said;  "herein  is  the  Amontillado.  As  for 
Luchesi " 

"  He  is  an  ignoramus,"  interrupted  my  friend,  as  he 
stepped  unsteadily  forward,  while  I  followed  immediately  at 
his  heels.  In  an  instant  he  had  reached  the  extremity  of  the 
jiiche,  and  finding  his  progress  arrested  by  the  rock,  stood 
stupidly  bewildered.  A  moment  more  and  I  had  fettered  him 
to  the  granite.  In  its  surface  were  two  iron  staples,  distant 
frojn  each  other  about  two  feet,  horizontally.  From  one  of 
these  depended  a  short  chain,  from  the  other  a  padlock. 
Throwing  the  links  about  his  .waist,  it  was  but  the  work  of  a 
few.  seconds  to  secure  it.  He  was  too  much  astounded  to 
resist.    Withdrawing  the  key,  I  stepped  back  from  the  recess. 

"  Pafis  your  hand,"  I  said,  "  over  the  wall ;  you  cannot  help 
feeling  the  nitre.     Indeed  it  is  very  damp.     Qnce  more  let 


354  THE  BOOK  OP  THE  SHORT  STORY 

me  implore  you  to  return.  No  ?  Then  I  must  positively  leave 
you.  But  I  must  first  render  you  all  the  little  attentions  in 
my  power." 

"  The  Amontillado !  "  ejaculated  my  friend,  not  yet  recov- 
ered from  his  astonishment. 

"True,"  I  replied;  "the  Amontillado." 

As  I  said  these  words  I  busied  myself  among  the  pile  of 
bones  of  which  I  have  before  spoken.  Throwing  them  aside, 
I  soon  uncovered  a  quantity  of  building-stone  and  mortar. 
With  these  materials  and  with  the  aid  of  my  trowel,  I  began 
vigorously  to  wall  up  the  entrance  of  the  niche. 

I  had  scarcely  laid  the  first  tier  of  the  masonry  when  I 
discovered  that  the  intoxication  of  Fortunato  had  in  a  great 
measure  worn  off.  The  earliest  indication  I  had  of  this  was 
a  low  moaning  cry  from  the  depth  of  the  recess.  It  was  not 
the  cry  of  a  drunken  man.  There  was  then  a  long  and  obsti- 
nate silence.  I  laid  the  second  tier,  and  the  third,  and  the 
fourth ;  and  then  I  heard  the  furious  vibrations  of  the  chain. 
The  noise  lasted  for  several  minutes,  during  which,  that  I 
might  hearken  to  it  with  the  more  satisfaction,  I  ceased  my 
labours  and  sat  down  upon  the  bones.  When  at  last  the 
clanking  subsided,  I  resumed  the  trowel,  and  finished  without 
interruption  the  fifth,  the  sixth,  and  the  seventh  tier.  The 
wall  was  now  nearly  upon  a  level  with  my  breast.  I  again 
paused,  and  holding  the  flambeaux  over  the  masonwork, 
threw  a  few  feeble  rays  upon  the  figure  within. 

A  succession  of  loud  and  shrill  screams,  bursting  sud- 
denly from  the  throat  of  the  chained  form,  seemed  to  thrust 
me  violently  back.    For  a  brief  moment  I  hesitated — I  trem- 
bled.   Unsheathing  my  rapier,  I  began  to  grope  with  it  about 
he  recess;  but  the  thought  of  an  instant  reassured  me.     I 
>laced  my  hand  upon  the  solid  fabric  of  the  catacombs,  and. 
elt  satisfied.    I  reapproached  the  wall.    I  replied  to  the  yells 
^f  him  who  clamoured.     I  reechoed — I  aided — I  surpassed 
hem  in  volume  and  in  strength.     I  did  this,  and  the  clam- 
ourer  grew  still. 

It  was  now  midnight,  and  my  task  was  drawing  to  a  close. 
I  had  completed  the  eighth,  the  ninth,  and  the  tenth  tier.  I 
had  finished  a  portion  of  the  last  and  the  eleventh;  there  re- 
mained but  a  single  stone  to  be  fitted  and  plastered  in.  I 
struggled  with  its  weight;  I  placed  it  partially  in  its  cestined 


THE  CASK  OF  AMONTILLADO  355 

position.  But  now  there  came  from  out  the  niche  a  low 
laugh  that  erected  the  hairs  upon  my  head.  It  was  succeeded 
by  a  sad  voice,  which  I  had  difficulty  in  recognising  as  that 
of  the  noble  Fortunato.    The  voice  said: 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! — he  !  he  !  he  ! — a  very  good  joke  indeed — 
an  excellent  jest.  We  will  have  many  a  rich  laugh  about  it 
at  the  palazzo — he  !  he  !  he  ! — over  our  wine — he  !  he  !  he  !  " 

"  The  Amontillado !  "  I  said. 

**  He  !  he  !  he  ! — he  !  he  !  he  ! — yes,  the  Amontillado.  But 
is  it  not  getting  late?  Will  not  they  be  awaiting  us  at  the 
palazzo — the  Lady  Fortunato  and  the  rest  ?    Let  us  be  gone." 

"  Yes,'!  I  said,  "  let  us  be  gone." 

"  For  the  love  of  God,  Montresor !  " 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  "  for  the  love  of  God  !  " 

But  to  these  words  I  hearkened  in  vain  for  a  reply.  I 
grew  impatient.    I  called  aloud: 

"  Fortunato !  " 

No  answer.    I  called  again: 

"  Fortunato !  " 

No  answer  still.  I  thrust  a  torch  through  the  remaining 
aperture  and  let  it  fall  within.  There  came  forth  in  return 
only  a  jingling  of  the  bells.  My  heart  grew  sick — on  account 
of  the  dampness  of  the  catacombs.  I  hastened  to  make  an 
end  of  my  labour.  I  forced,  the  last  stone  into  its  position ; 
I  plastered  it  up.  Against  the  new  masonry  I  reerected  the 
old  rampart  of  bones.  For  the  half  of  a  century  no  mortal 
has  disturbed  them.    In  pace  requiescat. 


A  LIST   OF   REPRESENTATIVE   TALES   AND 
SHORT    STORIES 

XV 

1870   TO    1880: 

A  Lear  of  the  Steppes,  Ivan  Turgeneff  (1870). 

Carlino,  G.  D.  Ruffini  (1870). 

The  Torrents  of  Spring,  Ivan  Turgeneff  (1871) 

Devil-Puzzlers,  Frederic  B.  Perkins   (1871). 

Our  Brown  Passenger,  Henry  Kingsley  (1871). 

In  a  Glass  Darkly,  J.  Sheridan  Le  Fanu  (1872). 

Erzahlungen  und  Novellen,   R.   Lindau   (1873). 

Dernieres  Nouvelles,  Prosper  Merimee  (1873). 

Contes  du  Lundi,  Alphonse  Daudet  (1873). 

Marjorie  Daw,  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich   (1873). 

Who  Was  She?,  Bayard  Taylor  (1874). 

Die  Leute  von  Seldwyla,  Gottfried  Keller  (1874). 

Les  Femmes  d'Artistes,  Alphonse  Daudet  (1874). 

A    Passionate   Pilgrim,    and    Other    Stories,   Henry    James 

(1875). 

Tales  of  the  Argonauts,  Bret  Harte  (1875). 

Les  Morts  Bizarres,  Jean  Richepin   (1876). 

The  Dream,  I\an  Turgeneff   (1876). 

The  House  on  the  Beach,  George  Meredith   (1877). 

Les  Folies  Amoureuses,  Catulle  Mendes   (1877). 

A  Lodging  for  the  Night,  R.  L.  Stevenson  (1877), 

Pastorals  of  France,  Frederick  Wedmore  (1877). 

Trois  Contes,  Gustave  Flaubert  (1877). 

The  Case  of  General  Ople  and  Lady  Camper,  George  Mere- 
dith (1877). 

Judengeschichten,   L.   von   Sacher-Masoch    (1878). 

The  Sire  de  Maletroit's  Door,  R.  L.  Stevenson   (1878). 

New  Arabian  Nights,  R.  L.  Stevenson    (1878). 

Will  o'  the  Mill,  R.  L.  Stevenson   (1878). 

Ziiricher  Novellen,  Gottfried  Keller  (1878). 

Stories,  V.  M.  Garshin   (1878-). 

Noveletter,  Alexander  L.  Kielland   (1879). 

The  Madonna  of  the  Future,  and  Other  Stories,  Henry  James 

(1879). 
Old  Creole  Days,  G.  W.  Cable  (1879-83). 

357 


A    LEAR  OF   THE   STEPPES 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

A  Lear  of  the  Steppes,  written  by  Ivan  Turgeneff 
(1818-1883)  in  1870,  was  first  published  in  the  same 
year.  The  list  of  Turgeneff's  Short  Stories  is  too  long 
to  give  in  entirety,  but  a  few  of  the  most  striking  may  be 
mentioned:  The  Jew  (1846),  The  Diary  of  a  Superfluous 
Man  (1850),  Three  Meetings  (1851),  Mumu  (1852),  A 
Correspondence  (1854),  Faust  (1855),  Assya  (1857), 
First  Love  (i860),  Visions  (1863),  The  Dog  (1866),  A 
Lear  of  the  Steppes  (1870),  The  Torrents  of  Spring 
(1871),  The  Dream  (1876),  and  After  Death  (1883).  ' 

Of  Turgeneff 's  Short  Stories  Henry  James  has  said : 
''  One  by  one,  for  thirty  years,  with  a  firm,  deliberate 
hand,  with  intervals  and  patiences  and  waits,  Turgeneff 
pricked  in  his  sharp  outlines.  His  great  external  mark  is 
probably  his  concision :  an  ideal  he  never  threw  over — it 
shines  most  perhaps  even  when  he  is  least  brief — and  that 
he  often  applied  with  a  rare  felicity.  He  has  masterpieces 
of  a  few  pages ;  his  perfect  things  are  sometimes  his  least 
prolonged.  He  abounds  in  short  tales,  episodes  clipped 
as  if  by  the  scissors  of  Atropos."  An  examination  of  A 
Lear  of  the  Steppes  will  show  wherein  it  is  Turgeneff's 
particular  fortune  to  excel.  As  Edward  Garnett  has  said : 
"  This  sense  of  inevitability  and  of  the  mystery  of  life 
that  Turgeneff  gives  us  in  A  Lear  of  the  Steppes  is  the 
highest  demand  we  can  make  from  art."  The  story  is  a 
supreme  example  of  Turgeneff's  imaginative  interpreta- 
tion of  life,  and  of  his  habit  of  representing  the  universal 
in  a  single  character. 

The  present  version  of  A  Lear  of  the  Steppes  is  that 
by  Constance  Garnett. 

24  361 


362  THE    BOOK   OF  THE   SHORT   STORY 

AUTHORITIES  *. 

Partial  Portraits,  by  Henry  James ;  French  Poets  and 
Novelists,  by  Henry  James. 

Introductions,  by  Edward  Garnett,  to  the  volumes  of 
the. edition  of  Turgenefif's  works  translated  by  Constance 
Garnett. 

A  History  of  Russian  Literature,  by  K.  Waliszewski 
(Literatures  of  the  World  series). 

Essays  on  Russian  Novelists,  by  William  Lyon 
Phelps. 


A   LEAR   OF   THE    STEPPES 

We  were  a  party  of  six,  gathered  together  one  winter 
evening  at  the  house  of  an  old  college  friend.  The  conver- 
sation turned  on  Shakespeare,  on  his  types,  and  how  pro- 
foundly and  truly  they  were  taken  from  the  very  heart  of 
humanity.  We  admired  particularly  their  truth  to  life,  their 
actuality.  Each  of  us  spoke  of  the  Hamlets,  the  Othellos,  the 
Falstaffs,  even  the  Richard  the  Thirds  and  Macbeths — the 
last  two  only  potentially,  it  is  true,  resembling  their  proto- 
types— whom  he  had  happened  to  come  across. 

"  And  I,  gentlemen,"  cried  our  host,  a  man  well  past 
middle  age,  "  used  to  know  a  King  Lear !  " 

"  How  was  that?"  we  questioned  him. 

"  Oh,  would  you  like  me  to  tell  you  about  him  ?  '* 

"  Please  do." 

And  our  friend  promptly  began  his  narrative. 


"  All  my  childhood,"  he  began,  "  and  early  youth,  up  to 
the  age  of  fifteen,  I  spent  in  the  country,  on  the  estate  of  my 

mother,  a  wealthy  landowner  in  X province.    Almost  the 

most  vivid  impression,  that  has  remained  in  my  memory  of 
that  far-off  time,  is  the  figure  of  our  nearest  neighbour,  Mar- 
tin Petrovitch  Harlov.  Indeed  it  would  be  difficult  for  such 
an  impression  to  be  obliterated :  I  never  in  my  life  afterwards 
met  anything  in  the  least  like  Harlov.  Picture  to  yourselves 
a  man  of  gigantic  stature.  On  his  huge  carcass  was  set,  a 
little  askew,  and  without  the  least  trace  of  a  neck,  a  prodigious 
head.  A  perfect  haystack  of  tangled  yellowish-gray  hair  stood 
up  all  over  it,  growing  almost  down  to  the  bushy  eyebrows. 
On  the  broad  expanse  of  his  purple  face,  that  looked  as 
though  it  had  been  peeled,  there  protruded  a  sturdy  knobby 

363 


364      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

nose;  diminutive  little  blue  eyes  stared  out  haughtily,  and 
a  mouth  gaped  open  that  was  diminutive  too,  but  crooked, 
chapped,  and  of  the  same  colour  as  the  rest  of  the  face.  The 
voice  that  proceeded  from  this  mouth,  though  hoarse,  was 
exceedingly  strong  and  resonant.  ...  Its  sound  recalled  the 
clank  of  iron  bars,  carried  in  a  cart  over  a  badly  paved  road ; 
and  when  Harlov  spoke,  it  was  as  though  some  one  were 
shouting  in  a  high  wind  across  a  wide  ravine.  It  was  difficult 
to  tell  just  what  Harlov's  face  expressed,  it  was  such  an 
expanse.  .  .  .  One  felt  one  could  hardly  take  it  all  in  at  one 
glance.  But  it  was  not  disagreeable — a  certain  grandeur  in- 
deed could  be  discerned  in  it,  only  it  was  exceedingly  astound- 
ing and  unusual.  And  what  hands  he  had — positive  cushions  ! 
What  fingers,  what  feet !  I  remember  I  could  never  gaze 
without  a  certain  respectful  awe  at  the  four-foot  span  of  Mar- 
tin Petrovitch's  back,  at  his  shoulders,  like  millstones.  But 
what  especially  struck  me  was  his  ears !  They  were  just  like 
great  twists  of  bread,  full  of  bends  and  curves;  his  cheeks 
seemed  to  support  them  on  both  sides.  Martin  Petrovitch 
used  to  wear — winter  and  summer  alike — a  Cossack  dress  of 
green  cloth,  girt  about  with  a  small  Tcherkess  strap,  and 
tarred  boots.  I  never  saw  a  cravat  on  him,  and  indeed  what 
could  he  have  tied  a  cravat  round?  He  breathed  slowly  and 
heavily,  Hke  a  bull,  but  walked  without  a  sound.  One  might 
have  imagined  that  having  got  into  a  room,  he  was  in  con- 
stant fear  of  upsetting  and  overturning  everything,  and  so 
moved  cautiously  from  place  to  place,  sideways  for  the  most 
part,  as  though  slinking  by.  He  was  possessed  of  a  strength 
truly  Herculean,  and  in  consequence  enjoyed  great  renown 
in  the  neighbourhood.  Our  common  people  retain  to  this  day 
their  reverence  for  Titanic  heroes.  Legends  were  invented 
about  him.  They  used  to  recount  that  he  had  one  day  met  a 
bear  in  the  forest  and  had  almost  vanquished  him ;  that  hav- 
ing once  caught  a  thief  in  the  beehouse,  he  had  flung  him, 
horse  and  cart  and  all,  over  the  hedge,  and  so  on.  Harlov 
himself  never  boasted  of  his  strength.  "  If  my  right  hand  is 
blessed,"  he  used  to  say,  "  so  it  is  God's  will  it  should  be !  " 
He  was  proud,  only  he  did  not  take  pride  in  his  strength,  but 
in  his  rank,  his  descent,  his  common  sense. 

"  Our  family's  descended  from  the  Swede  Harlus,"  he  used 
to  maintain.    "  In  the  princely  reign  of  Ivan  Vassilievitch  the 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES  SH 

Dark  (fancy  how  long  ago!)  he  came  to  Russia,  and  that 
Swede  Harlus  did  not  wish  to  be  a  Finnish  count — but  he 
wished  to  be  a  Russian  nobleman,  and  he  was  inscribed  in 
the  golden  book.  It's  from  him  we  Harlovs  are  sprung !  .  .  . 
And  by  the  same  token,  all  of  us  Harlovs  are  born  flaxen- 
haired,  with  light  eyes  and  clean  faces,  because  we're  chil- 
dren of  the  snow  !  " 

*'  But,  Martin  Petrovitch,"  I  once  tried  to  object,  "  there 
never  was  an  Ivan  Vassilievitch  the  Dark.  There  was  an 
Ivan  Vassilievitch  the  Terrible.  The  Dark  was  the  name 
given  to  the  great  prince  Vassily  Vassilievitch." 

"  What  nonsense  will  you  talk  next !  "  Harlov  answered 
serenely ;  "  since  I  say  so,  so  it  was  !  " 

One  day  my  mother  took  it  into  her  head  to  commend 
him  to  his  face  for  his  really  remarkable  incorruptibility. 

"  Ah,  Nataha  Nikolaevna !  "  he  protested  almost  angrily ; 
"  what  a  thing  to  praise  me  for,  really !  We  gentlefolk  can't 
be  otherwise ;  so  that  no  churl,  no  low-born,  servile  creature 
dare  even  imagine  evil  of  us !  I  am  a  Harlov,  my  family  has 
come  down  from  " — here  he  pointed  up  somewhere  very  high 
aloft  in  the  ceiling — "  and  me  not  be  honest !  How  is  it 
possible  ?  " 

Another  time  a  high  official,  who  had  come  into  the  neigh- 
bourhood and  was  staying  with  my  mother,  fancied  he  could 
make  fun  of  Martin  Petrovitch.  Thfe  latter  had  again  re- 
ferred to  the  Swede  Harlus,  who  came  to  Russia.  .  .  . 

"  In  the  days  of  King  Solomon  ?  "  the  official  interrupted. 

"  No,  not  of  King  Solomon,  but  of  the  great  Prince  Ivan 
Vassilievitch  the  Dark." 

"  But  I  imagine,"  the  official  pursued,  "  that  your  family 
is  much  more  ancient,  and  goes  back  to  antediluvian  days, 
when  there  were  still  mastodons  and  megatheriums  about." 

These  scientific  names  were  absolutely  meaningless  to 
Martin  Petrovitch;  but  he  realised  that  the  dignitary  was 
laughing  at  him. 

"  May  be  so,"  he  boomed,  "  our  family  is,  no  doubt,  very 
ancient;  in  those  days  when  my  ancestor  was  in  Moscow, 
they  do  say  there  was  as  great  a  fool  as  your  excellency  living 
there,  and  such  fools  are  not  seen  twice  in  a  thousand 
years." 

The  high  official  was  in  a  furious  rage,  while  Harlov 


i66  THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

threw  his  head  back,  stuck  out  his  chin,  snorted  and  disap- 
peared. Two  days  later  he  came  in  again.  My  mother 
began  reproaching  him.  "  It's  a  lesson  for  him,  ma'am," 
interposed  Harlov,  "  not  to  fly  off  without  knowing  what  he's 
about,  to  find  out  whom  he  has  to  deal  with  first.  He's 
young  yet,  he  must  be  taught."  The  dignitary  was  almost  of 
the  same  age  as  Harlov ;  but  this  Titan  was  in  the  habit  of 
regarding  every  one  as  not  fully  grown  up.  He  had  the 
greatest  confidence  in  himself  and  was  afraid  of  absolutely 
no  one.  "  Can  they  do  anything  to  me  ?  Where  on  earth  is 
the  man  that  can  ?  "  he  would  ask,  and  suddenly  he  would  go 
off  into  a  short  but  deafening  guffaw. 


II 

My  mother  was  exceedingly  particular  in  her  choice  of 
acquaintances,  but  she  made  Harlov  welcome  with  special 
cordiality  and  allowed  him  many  privileges.  Twenty-five 
years  before,  he  had  saved  her  life  by  holding  up  her  carriage 
on  the  edge  of  a  deep  precipice,  down  which  the  horses  had 
already  fallen.  The  traces  and  straps  of  the  harness  broke, 
but  Martin  Petrovitch  did  not  let  go  his  hold  of  the  wheel  he 
had  grasped,  though  the  blood  spurted  out  under  his  nails. 
My  mother  had  arranged  his  marriage.  She  chose  for  his 
wife  an  orphan  girl  of  seventeen,  who  had  been  brought  up 
in  her  house ;  he  was  over  forty  at  the  time.  Martin  Petro- 
vitch's  wife  was  a  frail  creature — they  said  he  carried  her 
into  his  house  in  the  palms  of  his  hands — and  she  did  not  live 
long  with  him.  She  bore  him  two  daughters,  however.  After 
her  death,  my  mother  continued  her  good  offices  to  Martin 
Petrovitch.  She  placed  his  elder  daughter  in  the  district 
school,  and  afterwards  found  her  a  husband,  and  already  had 
another  in  her  eye  for  the  second.  Harlov  was  a  fairly  good 
manager.  He  had  a  little  estate  of  nearly  eight  hundred 
acres,  and  had  built  on  to  his  place  a  little,  and  the  way  the 
peasants  obeyed  him  is  indescribable.  Owing  to  his  stout- 
ness, Harlov  scarcely  ever  went  anywhere  on  foot :  the  earth 
did  not  bear  him.  He  used  to  go  everywhere  in  a  low 
racing  droshky,  himself  driving  a  raw-boned  mare,  thirty 
years  old,  with  a  scar  on  her  shoulder,  from  a  wound  which 
she  had  received  in  the  battle  of  Borodino,  under  the  quarter- 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES  3^7 

master  of  a  cavalry  regiment.  This  mare  was  always  some- 
how lame  in  all  four  legs ;  she  could  not  go  at  a  walking  pace, 
but  could  only  change  from  a  trot  to  a  canter.  She  used  to 
eat  mugwort  and  wormwood  along  the  hedges,  which  I  have 
never  noticed  any  other  horse  do.  I  remember  I  always 
used  to  wonder  how  such  a  broken-down  nag  could  draw  such 
a  fearful  weight.  I  won't  venture  to  repeat  how  many  hun- 
dredweight were  attributed  to  our  neighbour.  In  the  droshky 
behind  Martin  Petrovitch's  back  perched  his  swarthy  page, 
Maximka.  With  his  face  and  whole  person  squeezed  close 
up  to  his  master,  and  his  bare  feet  propped  on  the  hind  axle- 
bar  of  the  droshky,  he  looked  like  a  little  leaf  or  worm  which 
had  clung  by  chance  to  the  gigantic  carcass  before  him.  This 
same  page  boy  used  once  a  week  to  shave  Martin  Petrovitch. 
He  used,  so  they  said,  to  stand  on  a  table  to  perform  this 
operation.  Some  jocose  persons  averred  that  he  had  to  run 
round  his  master's  chin.  Harlov  did  not  like  staying  long 
at  home,  and  so  one  might  often  see  him  driving  about  in  his 
invariable  equipage,  with  the  reins  in  one  hand  (the  other 
he  held  smartly  on  his  knee  with  the  elbow  crooked  upwards), 
with  a  diminutive  old  cap  on  the  very  top  of  his  head.  He 
looked  boldly  about  him  with  his  little  bearlike  eyes,  shouted 
in  a  voice  of  thunder  to  all  the  peasants,  artisans,  and  trades- 
people he  met.  Priests  he  greatly  disliked,  and  he  would 
send  vigorous .  abjurations  after  them  when  he  met  them. 
One  day  on  overtaking  me  (I  was  out  for  a  stroll  with  my 
gun),  he  hallooed  at  a  hare  that  lay  near  the  road  in  such  a 
way  that  I  could  not  get  the  roar  and  ring  of  it  out  of  my 
ears  all  day. 

Ill 

My  mother,  as  I  have  already  stated,  made  Martin  Petro- 
vitch very  welcome.  She  knew  what  a  profound  respect  he 
entertained  for  her  person.  "  She  is  a  real  gentlewoman, 
one  of  our  sort,"  was  the  way  he  used  to  refer  to  her.  He  used 
to  style  her  his  benefactress,  while  she  saw  in  him  a  devoted 
giant,  who  would  not  have  hesitated  to  face  a  whole  mob  of 
peasants  in  defence  of  her ;  and  although  no  one  foresaw  the 
barest  possibility  of  such  a  contingency,  still,  to  my  mother's 
notions,  in  the  absence  of  a  husband — she  had  early  been  left 
a  widow — such  a  champion  as  Martin  Petrovitch  was  not  to 


368      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

be  despised.  And  besides,  he  was  a  man  of  upright  character, 
who  curried  favour  with  no  one,  never  borrowed  money  or 
drank  spirits;  and  no  fool  either,  though  he  had  received  no 
sort  of  education.  My  mother  trusted  Martin  Petrovitch; 
when  she  took  it  into  her  head  to  make  her  will,  she  asked 
him  to  witness  it,  and  he  drove  home  expressly  to  fetch  his 
round  iron-rimmed  spectacles,  without  which  he  could  not 
write.  And  with  spectacles  on  nose,  he  succeeded,  in  a  quar- 
ter of  an  hour,  with  many  gasps  and  groans  and  great  effort, 
in  inscribing  his  Christian  name,  father's  name,  and  surname 
and  his  rank  and  designation,  tracing  enormous  quadrangular 
letters,  with  tails  and  flourishes.  Having  completed  this  task, 
he  declared  he  was  tired  out,  and  that  writing  for  him  was  as 
J}ard__^Qrk  as  catching  fleas.  ^^  Yes,  my  mother  had  a  respect 
for  him;  ...  he  was^not,  however,  admitted  beyond  the 
dining-room  in  our  house.  He  carried  a  very  strong  odour 
with  him ;  there  was  a  smell  of  the  earth,  of  decaying  forest, 
of  marsh  mud  about  him.  "  He's  a  forest  demon !  "  my  old 
nurse  would  declare.  At  dinner  a  special  table  used  to  be 
laid  apart  in  a  corner  for  Martin  Petrovitch,  and  he  was 
not  offended  at  that,  he  knew  other  people  were  ill  at  ease 
sitting  beside  him,  and  he  too  had  greater  freedom  in  eating. 
And  he  did  eat  too,  as  no  one,  I  imagine,  has  eaten  since  the 
days  of  Polyphemus.  At  the  very  beginning  of  dinner,  by 
way  of  a  precautionary  measure,  they  always  served  him  a 
pot  of  some  four  pounds  of  porridge,  "  else  you'd  eat  me  out 
of  house  and  home,"  my  mother  used  to  say.  "  That  I  should, 
ma'am,"  Martin  Petrovitch  would  respond,  grinning. 

My  mother  liked  to  hear  his  reflections  on  any  topic  con- 
nected with  the  land.  But  she  could  not  support  the  sound 
of  his  voice  for  long  together.  "  What's  the  meaning  of  it, 
my  good  sir !  "  she  would  exclaim ;  "  you  might  take  some- 
thing to  cure  yourself  of  it,  really !  You  simply  deafen  me. 
Such  a  trumpet-blast !  " 

"  Natalia  Nikolaevna  !  benefactress  !  "  Martin  Petrovitch 
would  rejoin,  as  a  rule,  "  I'm  not  responsible  for  my  throat. 
And  what  medicine  could  have  any  effect  on  me — kindly  tell 
me  that?    I'd  better  hold  my  tongue  for  a  bit.'* 

In  reality,  I  imagine,  no  medicine  could  have  affected 
Martin  Petrovitch.     He  was  never  ill. 

He  was  not  good  at  telling  stories,  and  did  not  care  for  it. 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES  369 

"  Much  talking  gives  me  asthma,"  he  used  to  remark  reproach- 
fully. It  was  only  when  one  got  him  on  to  the  year  1812 — 
he  had  served  in  the  militia,  and  had  received  a  bronze  medal, 
which  he  used  to  wear  on  festive  occasions  attached  to  a 
Vladimir  ribbon — when  one  questioned  him  about  the  French, 
that  he  would  relate  some  few  anecdotes.  He  used,  however, 
to  maintain  stoutly  all  the  while  that  there  never  had  been 
any  Frenchmen,  real  ones,  in  Russia,  only  some  poor  maraud- 
ers, who  had  straggled  over  from  hunger,  and  that  he  had 
given  many  a  good  drubbing  to  such  rabble  in  the  forests. 

IV 

And  yet  even  this  self-confident,  unflinching  giant  had 
his  moments  of  melancholy  and  depression.  Without  any 
visible  cause  he  would  suddenly  begin  to  be  sad;  he  would 
lock  himself  up  alone  in  his  room,  and  hum^positively  hum 
— like  a  whole  hive  of  bees ;  or  he  would  call  his  page  Maxim- 
ka,  and  tell  him  to  read  aloud  to  him  out  of  the  solitary  book 
which  had  somehow  found  its  way  into  his  house,  an  odd 
volume  of  Novikovsky's  The  Worker  at  Leisure,  or  else  to  sing 
to  him.  And  Maximka,  who  by  some  strange  freak  of  chance 
could  spell  out  print,  syllable  by  syllable,  would  set  to  work 
with  the  usual  chopping  up  of  the  words  and  transference  of 
the  accent,  bawling  out  phrases  of  the  following  description : 
*'  But  man  in  his  wilfulness  draws  from  this  empty  hypothesis, 
which  he  applies  to  the  animal  kingdom,  utterly  opposite  con- 
clusions. Every  animal  separately,"  he  says,  "  is  not  capable 
of  making  me  happy  !  "  and  so  on.  Or  he  would  chant  in  a 
shrill  little  voice  a  mournful  song,  of  which  nothing  could  be 
distinguished  but :  "  Ee  .  . .  eee  .  . .  ee  .  . .  a  .  .  .  ee  .  .  .  a  '.  .  . 
ee  .  .  .  Aaa  .  .  .  ska !  O  .  .  .  00  .  .  .  00  .  .  .  bee  .  .  .  ee 
.  .  .  ee  .  .  .  ee  .  .  .  la !  "  While  Martin  Petrovitch  would 
shake  his  head,  make  allusions  to  the  mutability  of  life,  how 
all  things  turn  to  ashes,  fade  away  like  grass,  pass — and  will 
return  no  more !  A  picture  had  somehow  come  into  his 
hands,  representing  a  burning  candle,  which  the  winds,  with 
puffed-out  cheeks,  were  blowing  upon  from  all  sides;  below 
was  the  inscription :  "  Such  is  the  life  of  man."  He  was  very 
fond  of  this  picture ;  he  had  hung  it  up  in  his  own  room,  but 
at  ordinary,  not  melancholy,  times  he  used  to  keep  it  turned 
fftpe  tP  the  wall,  so  that  it  mi^^ht  not  depress  him.    Harlov, 


370      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

that  colossus,  was  afraid  of  death !  To  the  consolations  of 
religion,  to  prayer,  however,  he  rarely  had  recourse  in  his 
fits  of  melancholy.  Even  then  he  chiefly  relied  on  his  own 
intelligence.  He  had  no  particular  religious  feeling;  he  was 
not  often  seen  in  church ;  he  used  to  say,  it  is  true,  that  he 
did  not  go  on  the  ground  that,  owing  to  his  corporeal  dimen- 
sions, he  was  afraid  of  squeezing  other  people  out.  The  fit 
of  depression  commonly  ended  in  Martin  Petrovitch's  begin- 
ning to  whistle,  and  suddenly,  in  a  voice  of  thunder,  ordering 
out  his  droshky,  and  dashing  of?  about  the  neighbourhood, 
vigorously  brandishing  his  disengaged  hand  over  the  peak  of 
his  cap,  as  though  he  would  say,  "  For  all  that,  I  don't  care 
a  straw !  "    He  was  a  regular  Russian. 


Strong  men,  like  Martin  Petrovitch,  are  for  the  most  part 
of  a  phlegmatic  disposition;  but  he,  on  the  contrary,  was 
rather  easily  irritated.  He  was  specially  short-tempered  with 
a  certain  Bitchkov,  who  had  found  a  refuge  in  our  house, 
where  he  occupied  a  position  between  that  of  a  bufifoon  and 
a  dependent.  He  was  the  brother  of  Harlov's  deceased  wife, 
had  been  nicknamed  Souvenir  as  a  little  boy,  and  Souvenir  he 
had  remained  for  every  one,  even  the  servants,  who  ad- 
dressed him,  it  is  true,  as  Souvenir  Timofeitch.  His  real 
name  he  seemed  hardly  to  know  himself.  He  was  a  pitiful 
creature,  looked  down  upon  by  every  one;  a  toady,  in  fact. 
He  had  no  teeth  on  one  side  of  his  mouth,  which  gave  his 
little  wrinkled  face  a  crooked  appearance.  He  was  in  a  per- 
petual fuss  and  fidget ;  he  used  to  poke  himself  into  the  maids' 
room,  or  into  the  counting-house,  or  into  the  priest's  quarters, 
or  else  into  the  bailiff's  hut.  He  was  repelled  from  every- 
where, but  he  only  shrugged  himself  up,  and  screwed  up  his 
little  eyes,  and  laughed  a  pitiful  mawkish  laugh,  like  the 
sound  of  rinsing  a  bottle.  It  always  seemed  to  me  that  had 
Souvenir  had  money,  he  would  have  turned  into  the  basest 
person,  unprincipled,  spiteful,  even  cruel.  Poverty  kept  him 
within  bounds.  He  was  only  allowed  drink  on  holidays.  He 
was  decently  dressed,  by  my  mother's  orders,  since  in  the 
evenings  he  took  a  hand  in  her  game  of  picquet  or  boston. 
Souvenir  was    constantly    repeating :    "  Certainly,    d'rectly, 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES  371 

d'rectly."  "  D'rectly  what  ?  "  my  mother  would  ask,  with  an- 
noyance. He  instantly  drew  back  his  hands,  in  a  scare,  and 
lisped :  "  At  your  service,  ma'am  !  "  Listening  at  doors,  back- 
biting, and,  above  all,  quizzing,  teasing,  were  his  sole  interest, 
and  he  used  to  quiz  as  though  he  had  a  right  to,  as  though  he 
were  avenging  himself  for  something.  He  used  to  call  Mar- 
tin Petrovitch  brother,  and  tormented  him  beyond  endurance. 
"  What  made  you  kill  my  sister,  Margarita  Timofeevna  ?  "  he 
used  to  persist,  wriggling  about  before  him  and  sniggering. 
One  day  Martin  Petrovitch  was  sitting  in  the  billiard-room,  a 
cool  apartment,  in  which  no  one  had  ever  seen  a  single  fly, 
and  which  our  neighbour,  disliking  heat  and  sunshine,  greatly 
favoured  on  this  account.  He  was  sitting  between  the  wall 
and  the  billiard-table.  Souvenir  was  fidgeting  before  his 
bulky  person,  mocking  him,  grimacing.  .  .  .  Martin  Petro- 
vitch wanted  to  get  rid  of  him,  and  thrust  both  hands  out  in 
front  of  him.  Luckily  for  Souvenir  he  managed  to  get  away, 
his  brother-in-law's  open  hands  came  into  collision  with  the 
edge  of  the  billiard-table,  and  the  billiard-board  went  flying 
off  all  its  six  screws.  .  .  .  What  a  mass  of  batter  Souvenir 
would  have  been  turned  into  under  those  mighty  hands ! 


VI 

I  had  long  been  curious  to  see  how  Martin  Petrovitch 
arranged  his  household,  what  sort  of  a  home  he  had.  One 
day  I  invited  myself  to  accompany  him  on  horseback  as  far 
as  Eskovo  (that  was  the  name  of  his  estate).  "Upon  my 
word,  you  want  to  have  a  look  at  my  dominion,"  was  Martin 
Petrovitch's  comment.  "  By  all  means !  I'll  show  you  the 
garden,  and  the  house,  and  the  threshing-floor,  and  every 
thing.  I  have  plenty  of  everything."  We  set  off.  It  wn 
reckoned  hardly  more  than  a  couple  of  miles  from  our  plac 
to  Eskovo.  "  Here  it  is — my  dominion  !  "  Martin  Petrovitch 
roared  suddenly,  trying  to  turn  his  immovable  neck,  and  wa- 
ving his  arm  to  right  and  left.  "  It's  all  mine  !  "  Harlov's 
homestead  lay  on  the  top  of  a  sloping  hill.  At  the  bottom,  a 
few  wretched-looking  peasants'  huts  clustered  close  to  a 
small  pond.  At  the  pond,  on  a  washing-platform,  an  old 
peasant  woman  in  a  check  petticoat  was  beating  some  soaked 
linen  with  a  bat. 


372  TH£  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

"  Axinia  !  "  boomed  Martin  Petrovitch,  but  in  such  a  note 
that  the  rooks  flew  up  in  a  flock  from  an  oat-field  near.  .  .  . 
"  Washing  your  husband's  breeches  ?  " 

The  peasant  woman  turned  at  once  and  bowed  very  low. 

"  Yes,  sir/'  sounded  her  weak  voice. 

"  Ay,  ay !  Yonder,  look,"  Martin  Petrovitch  continued, 
proceeding  at  a  trot  alongside  a  half-rotting  wattle  fence, 
"that  is  my  hemp-patch;  and  that  yonder's  the  peasants'; 
see  the  difference  ?  And  this  here  is  my  garden ;  the  apple- 
trees  I  planted,  and  the  willows  I  planted  too.  Else  there 
was  no  timber  of  any  sort  here.  Look  at  that,  and  learn  a 
lesson !  " 

We  turned  into  the  courtyard,  shut  in  by  a  fence;  right 
opposite  the  gate  rose  an  old  tumble-down  lodge,  with  a  thatch 
roof,  and  steps  up  to  it,  raised  on  posts.  On  one  side  stood 
another,  rather  newer,  and  with  a  tiny  attic;  but  it  too  was 
a  ramshackly  affair.  "  Here  you  may  learn  a  lesson  again," 
observed  Harlov ;  "  see  what  a  little  manor-house  our  fathers 
Hved  in;  but  now  see  what  a  mansion  I  have  built  myself." 
This  "  mansion  "  was  like  a  house  of  cards.  Five  or  six  dogs, 
one  more  ragged  and  hideous  than  another,  welcomed  us 
with  barking.  "  Sheep-dogs  !  "  observed  Martin  Petrovitch. 
"  Pure-bred  Crimeans  !  Sh,  damned  brutes  !  I'll  come  and 
strangle  you  one  after  another !  "  On  the  steps  of  the  new 
building  there  came  out  a  young  man,  in  a  long  full  nankeen 
overall,  the  husband  of  Martin  Petrovitch's  elder  daughter. 
Skipping  quickly  up  to  the  droshky,  he  respectfully  supported 
his  father-in-law  under  the  elbow  as  he  got  up,  and  even  made 
as  though  he  would  hold  the  gigantic  feet,  which  the  latter, 
bending  his  bulky  person  forward,  lifted  with  a  sweeping 
movement  across  the  seat ;  then  he  assisted  me  to  dismount 
from  my  horse. 

"  Anna !  "  cried  Harlov,  "  Natalia  Nikolaevna's  son  has 
come  to  pay  us  a  visit;  you  must  find  some  good  cheer  for 
him.  But  where's  Evlampia?  "  (Anna  was  the  name  of  the 
elder  daughter,  Evlampia  of  the  younger.) 

"  She's  not  at  home ;  she's  gone  into  the  fields  to  get  corn- 
flowers," responded  Anna,  appearing  at  a  little  window  near 
the  door. 

"  Is  there  any  junket?  "  queried  Harlov. 

"  Yes." 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES  373 

"  And  cream  too  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  set  them  on  the  table,  and  I'll  show  the  young 
gentleman  my  own  room  meanwhile. — This  way,  please,  this 
way,"  he  added,  addressing  me,  and  beckoning  with  his  fore- 
finger. In  his  own  house  he  treated  me  less  familiarly ;  as  a 
host  he  felt  obliged  to  be  more  formally  respectful.  He  led 
me  along  a  corridor.  "  Here  is  where  I  abide,"  he  observed, 
stepping  sideways  over  the  threshold  of  a  wide  doorway, 
"  this  is  my  room.    Pray  walk  in  !  " 

His  room  turned  out  to  be  a  big  unplastered  apartment, 
almost  empty;  on  the  walls,  on  nails  driven  in  askew,  hung 
two  riding-whips,  a  three-cornered  hat  reddish  with  wear,  a 
single-barrelled  gun,  a  sabre,  a  sort  of  curious  horse-collar 
inlaid  with  metal  plates,  and  the  picture  representing  a  burn- 
ing candle  blown  on  by  the  winds.  In  one  corner  stood  a 
wooden  settle  covered  with  a  party-coloured  rug.  Hundreds 
of  flies  swarmed  thickly  about  the  ceiling;  yet  the  room  was 
cool.  But  there  was  a  very  strong  smell  of  that  peculiar  odour 
of  the  forest  which  always  accompanied  Martin  Petrovitch. 

"  Well,  is  it  a  nice  room  ?  "  Harlov  questioned  m.e. 

"  Very  nice." 

"  Look-ye,  there  hangs  my  Dutch  horse-collar,"  Harlov 
went  on,  dropping  into  his  familiar  tone  again.  "  A  splendid 
horse-collar  !  got  it  by  barter  off  a  Jew.    Just  you  look  at  it !  " 

"  It's  a  good  horse-collar." 

"  It's  most  practical.  And  just  sniff  it  .  .  .  what  leath- 
er!  "  I  smelt  the  horse-collar.  It  smelt  of  rancid  oil  and 
nothing  else. 

"  Now,  be  seated — there  on  the  stool ;  make  yourself  at 
home,"  observed  Harlov,  while  he  himself  sank  on  to  the 
settle,  and  seemed  to  fall  into  a  doze,  shutting  his  eyes  and 
even  beginning  to  snore.  I  gazed  at  him  without  speaking, 
with  ever  fresh  wonder;  he  was  a  perfect  mountain — there 
was  no  other  word  !     Suddenly  he  started. 

"Anna!"  he  shouted,  while  his  huge  stomach  rose  and 
fell  like  a  wave  on  the  sea ;  "  what  are  you  about  ?  Look 
sharp  !    Didn't  you  hear  me?  " 

"  Everything's  ready,  father ;  come  in,"  I  heard  his 
daughter's  voice. 

I  inwardly  marvelled  at  the  rapidity  with  which  Martin 


374      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

Petrovitch's  behests  had  been  carried  out;  and  followed  him 
into  the  drawing-room,  where,  on  a  table  covered  with  a  red 
cloth  with  white  flowers  on  it,  lunch  was  already  prepared: 
junket,  cream,  wheaten  bread,  even  powdered  sugar  and 
ginger.  While  I  set  to  work  on  the  junket,  Martin  Petro- 
vitch  growled  affectionately :  "  Eat,  my  friend,  eat,  my  dear 
boy ;  don't  despise  our  country  cheer,"  and  sitting  down  again 
in  a  corner,  again  seemed  to  fall  into  a  doze.  Before  me, 
perfectly  motionless,  with  downcast  eyes,  stood  Anna  Martin- 
ovna,  while  I  saw  through  the  window  her  husband  walking 
my  cob  up  and  down  the  yard,  and  rubbing  the  chain  of  the 
snaffle  with  his  own  hands. 

VII 

My  mother  did  not  like  Harlov's  elder  daughter;  she 
called  her  a  stuck-up  thing.  Anna  Martinovna  scarcely  ever 
came  to  pay  us  her  respects,  and  behaved  with  chilly  decorum 
in  my  mother's  presence,  though  it  was  by  her  good  offices 
she  had  been  well  educated  at  a  boarding-school,  and  had  been 
married,  and  on  her  wedding-day  had  received  a  thousand 
rubles  and  a  yellow  Turkish  shawl;  the  latter,  it  is  true, 
a  trifle  the  worse  for  wear.  She  was  a  woman  of  medium 
height,  thin,  very  brisk  and  rapid  in  her  movements,  with  thick 
fair  hair  and  a  handsome  dark  face,  on  which  the  pale-blue 
narrow  eyes  showed  up  in  a  rather  strange  but  pleasing 
way.  She  had  a  straight  thin  nose,  her  lips  were  thin  too,  and 
her  chin  was  like  the  loop-end  of  a  hairpin.  No  one  looking 
at  her  could  fail  to  think :  "  Well,  you  are  a  clever  creature — 
and  a  spiteful  one,  too !  "  And  for  all  that,  there  was  some- 
thing attractive  about  her  too.  Even  the  dark  moles,  scattered 
"  like  buckwheat  "  over  her  face,  sliTfed  her  and  increased  the 
feeling  she  inspired.  Her  hands  thrust  into  her  kerchief,  she 
was  slyly  watching  me,  looking  downwards  (I  was  seated, 
while  she  was  standing).  A jwickedjitile  smUe^trayed  about 
her  lips  and  her  cheeks  and  in  the  shadow  of  her  long  eye- 
lashes. "  Ugh,  you  pampered  little  fine  gentleman !  "  this 
smile  seemed  to  express.  Every  time  she  drew  a  breath,  her 
nostrils  slightly  distended — this,  too,  was  rather  strange.  But 
all  the  same,  it  seemed  to  me  that  were  Anna  Martinovna 
to  love  me,  or  even  to  care  to  kiss  me  with  her  thin  cruel  lips, 
I  should  simply  bound  up  to  the  ceiling  with  delight.    I  knew 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES  375 

she  was  very  severe  and  exacting,  that  the  peasant  women 
and  girls  went  in  terror  of  her — but  what  of  that?  Anna 
Martinovna  secretly  excited  my  imagination^.  .  .  though 
after  all,  I  was  only  fifteen  then — and  at  that  age !  .  .  . 

Martin  Petrovitch  roused  himself  again.  "  Anna !  "  he 
shouted,  "  you  ought  to  strum  something  on  the  pianoforte 
.  .  .  young  gentlemen  are  fond  of  that." 

I  looked  round;  there  was  a  pitiful  semblance  of  a  piano 
in  the  room. 

"  Yes,  father,"  responded  Anna  Martinovna.  "  Only  what 
am  I  to  play  the  young  gentleman?  He  won't  find  it  inter- 
esting." 

"  Why,  what  did  they  teach  you  at  your  young  ladies' 
seminary  ?  " 

"  I've  forgotten  everything — ^besides,  the  notes  are 
broken." 

Anna  Martinovna's  voice  was  very  pleasant,  resonant, 
and  rather  plaintive — like  the  note  of  some  birds  of  prey. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Martin  Petrovitch,  and  he  lapsed  into 
dreaminess  again.  "  Well,"  he  began  once  more,  "  wouldn't 
you  like,  then,  to  see  the  threshing-floor,  and  take  a  look 
round  ?  Volodka  will  escort  you. — Hi,  Volodka  !  "  he  shouted 
to  his  son-in-law,  who  was  still  pacing  up  and  down  the  yard 
with  my  horse,  "  take  the  young  gentleman  to  the  threshing- 
floor  .  .  .  and  show  him  my  farming  generally.  But  I  must 
have  a  nap  !     So  !  good-by  !  " 

He  went  out  and  I  after  him.  Anna  Martinovna  at  once 
set  to  work  rapidly,  and,  as  it  were,  angrily,  clearing  the 
table.  In  the  doorway,  I  turned  and  bowed  to  her.  But  she 
seemed  not  to  notice  my  bow,  and  only  smiled  again,  more 
maliciously  than  before. 

I  took  my  horse  from  Harlov's  son-in-law  and  led  him  by 
the  bridle.  We  went  together  to  the  threshing-floor,  but  as 
we  discovered  nothing  very  remarkable  about  it,  and  as  he 
could  not  suppose  any  great  interest  in  farming  in  a  young 
lad  like  me,  we  returned  through  the  garden  to  the  main  road. 


VIII 

I   was  well  acquainted  with   Harlov's   son-in-law.     His 
name  was  Vladimir  Vassilievitch  Sletkin.    He  was  an  orphan. 


37^      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

brought  up  by  my  mother,  and  the  son  of  a  petty  oflficial,  to 
whom  she  had  intrusted  some  business.  He  had  first  been 
placed  in  the  district  school,  then  he  had  entered  the  "  sei- 
gnorial  counting-house,"  then  he  had  been  put  into  the  service 
of  the  government  stores,  and,  finally,  married  to  the  daughter 
of  Martin  Petrovitch.  My  mother  used  to  call  him  a  little 
Jew ;  and  certainly,  with  his  curly  hair,  his  black  eyes  always 
moist,  like  damson  jam,  his  hook  nose,  and  wide  red  mouth, 
he  did  suggest  the  Jewish  type.  But  the  colour  of  his  skin 
was  white  and  he  was  altogether  very  good-looking.  He 
was  of  a  most  obliging  temper,  so  long  as  his  personal  advan- 
tage was  not  involved.  Then  he  promptly  lost  all  self-control 
from  greediness,  and  was  moved  even  to  tears.  He  was 
ready  to  whine  the  whole  day  long  to  gain  the  paltriest  trifle ; 
he  would  remind  one  a  hundred  times  over  of  a  promise, 
and  be  hurt  and  complain  if  it  were  not  carried  out  at  once. 
He  liked  sauntering  about  the  fields  with  a  gun ;  and  when 
he  happened  to  get  a  hare  or  a  wild  duck,  he  would  thrust 
his  booty  into  his  game-bag  with  peculiar  zest,  saying:  "  Now, 
you  may  be  as  tricky  as  you  like,  you  won't  escape  me  !  Now 
you're  mine ! " 

"  You've  a  good  horse,"  he  began  in  his  lisping  voice,  as 
he  assisted  me  to  get  into  the  saddle ;  "  I  ought  to  have  a 
horse  like  that !  But  where  can  I  get  one  ?  I've  no  such 
luck.     If  you'd  ask  your  mamma,  now — remind  her." 

"Why,  has  she  promised  you  one?" 

"  Promised  ?  No ;  but  I  thought  that  in  her  great  kind- 
ness  " 

"  You  should  apply  to  Martin  Petrovitch." 

"  To  Martin  Petrovitch  ?  "  Sletkin  repeated,  dwelling  on 
each  syllable.  "  To  him  I'm  no  better  than  a  worthless  page, 
like  Maximka.  He  keeps  a  tight  hand  on  us,  that  he  does, 
and  you  get  nothing  from  him  for  all  your  toil." 

"Really?" 

"  Yes,  by  God.  He'll  say :  *  My  word's  sacred  ! ' — and 
there,  it's  as  though  he's  chopped  it  off  with  an  axe.  You 
may  beg  or  not,  it's  all  one.  Besides,  Anna  Martinovna,  my 
wife,  is  not  in  such  favour  with  him  as  Evlampia  Martinovna. 
O  merciful  God,  bless  us  and  save  us ! "  he  suddenly  inter- 
rupted himself,  flinging  up  his  hands  in  despair.  "Look! 
what's  that?     A  whole  half-rood  of  oats,   our  oats,   some 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES  377 

wretch  has  gone  and  cut.  The  villain  !  Just  see  !  Thieves  ! 
thieves !  It's  a  true  saying,  to  be  sure,  don't  trust  Eskovo, 
Beskovo,  Erino,  and  Byelino !  [these  were  the  names  of  four 
villages  near].  Ah,  ah,  what  a  thing!  A  ruble  and  a  half's 
worth,  or,  maybe,  two  rubles,  loss !  " 

In  Sletkin's  voice  one  could  almost  hear  sobs.  I  gave 
my  horse  a  poke  in  the  ribs  and  rode  away  from  him. 

Sletkin's  ejaculations  still  reached  my  hearing,  when  sud- 
denly at  a  turn  in  the  road  I  came  upon  the  second  daughter 
of  Harlov,  Evlampia,  who  had,  in  the  words  of  Anna  Martin- 
ovna,  gone  into  the  fields  to  get  corn-flowers.  A  thick 
wreath  of  those  flowers  was  twined  about  her  head.  We  ex- 
changed bows  in  silence.  Evlampia,  too,  was  very  good- 
looking  ;  as  much  so  as  her  sister,  though  in  a  different  style. 
She  was  tall  and  stoutly-built ;  everything  about  her  was  on  a 
large  scale :  her  head,  and  her  feet  and  hands,  and  her  snow- 
white  teeth,  and^especially  her  eyes,  prominent,  languishing 
eyes,  of  the  dark  blue  of  glass  beads.  Everything  about  her, 
while  still  beautiful,  had  positively  a  monumental  character 
(she  was  a  true  daughter  of  Martin  Petrovitch).  She  did 
not,  it  seemed,  know  what  to  do  with  her  massive  fair  mane, 
and  she  had  twisted  it  in  three  plaits  round  her  head.  Her 
mouth  was  charming,  crimson  and  fresh  as  a  rose,  and  as  she 
talked  her  upper  lip  was  lifted  in  the  middle  in  a  very  fasci- 
nating way.  But  there  was  something  wild  and  almost  fierce '' 
in  the  glance  of  her  huge  eyes.  "  A  free  bird,  wild  Cossack 
breed,"  so  Martin  Petrovitch  used  to  speak  of  her.  I  was  in 
awe  of  her.  .  .  .  This  stately  beauty  reminded  one  of  her 
father. 

I  rode  on  a  little  farther  and  heard  her  singing  in  a 
strong,  even,  rather  harsh  voice,  a  regular  peasant  voice; 
suddenly  she  ceased.  I  looked  round  and  from  the  crest  of 
the  hill  saw  her  standing  beside  Harlov's  son-in-law,  facing 
the  rood  of  oats.  The  latter  was  gesticulating  and  pointing, 
but  she  stood  without  stirring.  The  sun  lighted  up  her  tall 
figure,  and  the  wreath  of  corn-flowers  shone  brilliantly  blue 
on  her  head. 

IX 

I  believe  I  have  already  mentioned  that,  for  this  second 
daughter  of  Harlov's  too,  my  mother  had  already  prepared 
25 


37^      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

a  match.  This  was  one  of  the  poorest  of  our  neighbours,  a 
retired  army  major,  Gavrila  Fedulitch  Zhitkov,  a  man  no 
longer  young,  and,  as  he  himself  expressed  it,  not  without 
a  certain  complacency,  however,  as  though  recommending 
himself,  "  battered  and  broken  down."  He  could  barely  read 
and  write,  and  was  exceedingly  stupid,  but  secretly  aspired 
to  become  my  mother's  steward,  as  he  felt  himself  to  be  a 
"man  of  action  ".  "  I  can  warm  the  peasants'  hides  for  them, 
if  I  can  do  anything,"  he  used  to  say,  almost  gnashing  his 
own  teeth,  "  because  I  was  used  to  it,"  he  used  to  explain,  "  in 
my  former  duties,  I  mean."  Had  Zhitkov  been  less  of  a  fool, 
he  would  have  realised  that  he  had  not  the  slightest  chance 
of  being  steward  to  my  mother,  seeing  that,  for  that,  it 
would  have  been  necessary  to  get  rid  of  the  present  steward, 
one  Kvitsinsky,  a  very  capable  Pole  of  great  character,  in 
whom  my  mother  had  the  fullest  confidence.  Zhitkov  had 
a  long  face,  like  a  horse's;  it  was  all  overgrown  with  hair 
of  a  dusty  whitish  colour;  his  cheeks  were  covered  with  it 
right  up  to  the  eyes;  and  even  in  the  severest  frosts,  it  was 
sprinkled  with  an  abundant  sweat,  like  drops  of  dew.  At 
the  sight  of  my  mother,  he  drew  himself  upright  as  a  post, 
his  head  positively  quivered  with  zeal,  his  huge  hands  slapped 
a  little  against  his  thighs,  and  his  whole  person  seemed  to 
express :  "  Command !  .  .  .  and  I  will  strive  my  utmost !  " 
My  mother  was  under  no  illusion  on  the  score  of  his  abilities, 
which  did  not,  however,  hinder  her  from  taking  steps  to 
marry  him  to  Evlampia, 

"  Only,  will  you  be  able  to  manage  her,  my  good  sir  ?  " 
she  asked  him  one  day. 

Zhitkov  smiled  complacently. 

"  Upon  my  word,  Natalia  Nikolaevna !  I  used  to  keep  a 
whole  regiment  in  order;  they  were  tame  enough  in  my 
hands;  and  what's  this?    A  trumpery  business!" 

"  A  regiment's  one  thing,  sir,  but  a  well-bred  girl,  a  wife, 
is  a  very  different  matter,"  my  mother  observed  with  dis- 
pleasure. 

"  Upon  my  word,  ma'am  !  Natalia  Nikolaevna  !  "  Zhit- 
kov cried  again:  "that  we're  quite  able  to  understand.  In 
one  word :  a  young  lady,  a  delicate  person !  " 

"  Well !  "  my  mother  decided  at  length,  "  Evlampia  won't 
let  herself  be  trampled  upon." 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES  379 


One  day — it  was  the  month  of  June,  and  evening  was 
coming  on — a  servant  announced  the  arrival  of  Martin  Pe- 
trovitch.  My  mother  was  surprised :  we  had  not  seen  him 
for  over  a  week,  but  he  had  never  visited  us  so  late  before. 
"  Something  has  happened !  "  she  exclaimed  in  an  undertone. 
The  face  of  Martin  Petrovitch,  when  he  rolled  into  the  room 
and  at  once  sank  into  a  chair  near  the  door,  wore  such  an 
unusual  expression,  it  was  so  preoccupied  and  positively  pale, 
that  my  mother  involuntarily  repeated  her  exclamation  aloud. 
Martin  Petrovitch  fixed  his  little  eyes  upon  her,  was  silent 
for  a  space,  sighed  heavily,  was  silent  again,  and  articulated 
at  last  that  he  had  come  about  something  .  .  .  which  .  .  . 
was  of  a  kind,  that  on  account  of  .  .  . 

Muttering  these  disconnected  words,  he  suddenly  got  up 
and  went  out. 

My  mother  rang,  ordered  the  footman,  who  appeared,  to 
overtake  Martin  Petrovitch  at  once  and  bring  him  back  with- 
out fail,  but  the  latter  had  already  had  time  to  get  into  his 
droshky  and  drive  away. 

Next  morning,  my  mother,  who  was  astonished  and  even 
alarmed,  as  much  by  Martin  Petrovitch's  strange  behaviour 
as  by  the  extraordinary  expression  of  his  face,  was  on  the 
point  of  sending  a  special  messenger  to  him,  when  he  made 
his  appearance.    This  time  he  seemed  more  composed. 

"  Tell  me,  my  good  friend,  tell  me,"  cried  my  mother, 
directly  she  saw  him,  "  whatever  has  happened  to  you  ?  I 
thought  yesterday,  upon  my  word  I  did.  ...  *  Mercy  on  us  !  ' 
I  thought,  *  hasn't  our  old  friend  gone  right  off  his  head  ?  '  " 

"  I've  not  gone  off  my  head,  madam,"  answered  Martin 
Petrovitch ;  "  I'm  not  that  sort  of  man.  But  I  want  to  con- 
sult with  you." 

"What  about?" 

"  I'm  only  in  doubt,  whether  it  will  be  agreeable  to  you 
in  this  same  contingency " 

"  Speak  away,  speak  away,  my  good  sir,  but  more  sim- 
ply. Don't  alarm  me!  What's  this  same  contingency? 
Speak  more  plainly.  Or  is  it  your  melancholy  come  upon 
you  again  ?  " 


3So      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

Harlov  scowled.  "  No,  it's  not  melancholy — that  comes 
upon  me  in  the  new  moon ;  but  allow  me  to  ask  you,  madam, 
what  do  you  think  about  death  ?  " 

My  mother  was  taken  aback.    "  About  what  ?  " 

"  About  death.  Can.  death  spare  any  one  whatever  in  this 
world?" 

"  What  have  you  got  in  your  head,  my  good  friend  ? 
Who  of  us  is  immortal?  For  all  you're  born  a  giant,  even 
to  you  there'll  be  an  end  in  time." 

"  There  will !  oh,  there  will !  "  Harlov  assented  and  he 
looked  downcast.  "  I've  had  a  vision  come  to  me  in  my 
dreams,"  he  brought  out  at  last. 

''What  are  you  saying?"  my  mother  interrupted  him. 

"  A  vision  in  my  dreams,"  he  repeated — "  I'm  a  seer  of 
visions,  you  know  !  " 

"  You !  " 

"  I.  Didn't  you  know  it  ?  "  Harlov  sighed.  "  Well,  so. 
.  .  .  Over  a  week  ago,  madam,  I  lay  down,  on  the  very  last 
day  of  eating  meat  before  St.  Peter's  fast-day;  I  lay  down 
after  dinner  to  rest  a  bit,  well,  and  so  I  fell  asleep,  and 
dreamed  a  raven  colt  ran  into  the  room  to  me.  And  this  colt 
began  sporting  about  and  grinning.  Black  as  a  beetle  was  the 
raven  colt."    Harlov  ceased. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  my  mother. 

"  And  all  of  a  sudden  this  same  colt  turns  round,  and 
gives  me  a  kick  in  the  left  elbow,  right  in  the  funny-bone. 
...  I  waked  up ;  my  arm  would  not  move  nor  my  leg  either. 
Well,  thinks  I,  it's  paralysis ;  however,  I  worked  them  up  and 
down,  and  got  them  to  move  again ;  only  there  were  shooting 
pains  in  the  joints  a  long  time,  and  there  are  still.  When  I 
open  my  hand,  the  pains  shoot  through  the  joints." 

"  Why,  Martin  Petrovitch,  you  must  have  lain  upon  your 
arm  somehow  and  crushed  it." 

"  No,  madam ;  pray,  don't  talk  like  that !  It  was  an  in- 
timation .  .  .  referring  to  my  death,  I  mean." 

"  Well,  upon  my  word,"  my  mother  was  beginning. 

"  An  intimation.  Prepare  thyself,  man,  as  't  were  to  say. 
And  therefore,  madam,  here  is  what  I  have  to  announce  to 
you,  without  a  moment's  delay.  Not  wishing,"  Harlov  sud- 
denly began  shouting,  "  that  the  same  death  should  come 
upon  me,  the  servant  of  God,  unawares,  I  have  planned  in  my 


A  LEA^  OF  THE  STiEPPES  3^1 

<Dwn  mind  this :  to  divide — now  during  my  lifetime — my  estate 
between  my  two  daughters,  Anna  and  Evlampia,  according 
as  God  Almighty  directs  me  " — Martin  Petrovitch  stopped, 
groaned,  and  added,  "  without  a  moment's  delay."  - 

"  Well,  that  would  be  a  good  idea,"  observed  my  mother ; 
"  though  I  think  you  have  no  need  to  be  in  a  hurry." 

"  And  seeing  that  herein  I  desire,"  Harlov  continued, 
raising  his  voice  still  higher,  "  to  be  observant  of  all  due  order 
and  legality,  so  I  humbly  beg  your  young  son,  Dmitri  Semyo- 
novitch — I  would  not  venture,  madam,  to  trouble  you — I  beg 
the  said  Dmitri  Semyonovitch,  your  son,  and  I  claim  of  my 
kinsman,  Bitchkov,  as  a  plain  duty,  to  assist  at  the  ratifica- 
tion of  the  formal  act  and  transference  of  possession  to  my 
two  daughters — Anna,  married,  and  Evlampia,  spinster. 
Which  act  will  be  drawn  up  in  readiness  the  day  after  to- 
morrow at  twelve  o'clock,  at  my  own  place,  Eskovo,  also 
called  Kozulkino,  in  the  presence  of  the  ruling  authorities 
and  functionaries,  who  are  thereto  invited.'* 

Martin  Petrovitch  with  difficulty  reached  the  end  of  this 
speech,  which  he  had  obviously  learnt  by  heart,  and  which 
was  interspersed  with  frequent  sighs.  .  .  .  He  seemed  to  have 
no  breath  left  in  his  chest ;  his  pale  face  was  crimson  again, 
and  he  several  times  wiped  the  sweat  off  it. 

"  So  you've  already  composed  the  deed  dividing  your 
property?"  my  mother  queried.  "When  did  you  manage 
that?" 

"  I  managed  it  ...  oh !  Neither  eating,  nor  drink- 
ing  " 

"Did  you  write  it  yourself?" 

"  Volodka  ...  oh  !  helped." 

"  And  have  you  forwarded  a  petition  ?  " 

"  I  have,  and  the  chamber  has  sanctioned  it,  and  notice 
has  been  given  to  the  district  court,  and  the  temporary  divi  - 
sion  of  the  local  court  has  .  .  .  oh  !  .  .  .  been  notified  to  be 
present." 

My  mother  laughed.  "  I  see,  Martin  Petrovitch,  you've 
made  every  arrangement  already — and  how  quickly.  You've 
not  spared  money,  I  should  say  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed,  madam," 

"  Well,  well.  And  you  say  you  want  to  consult  with  me. 
Well,  my  little  Dmitri  can  go;  and  I'll  send  Souvenir  with 


^§2      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

him,  and  speak  to  Kvitsinsky.  .  .  .  But  you  haven't  invited 
Gavrila  Fedulitch  ?  " 

"  Gavrila  FeduHtch — Mr.  Zhitkov — has  had  notice  .  .  . 
from  me  ^Iso.    As  a  betrothed,  it  was  only  fitting." 

Martin  Petrovitch  had  obviously  exhausted  all  the  re- 
sources of  his  eloquence.  Besides,  it  always  seemed  to  me 
that  he  did  not  look  altogether  favourably  on  the  match  my 
mother  had  made  for  his  daughter ;  possibly,  he  had  expected 
a  more  advantageous  marriage  for  his  darling  Evlampia. 

He  got  up  from  his  chair,  and  made  a  scrape  with  his 
foot,     "  Thank  you  for  your  consent." 

"  Where  are  you  off  to  ?  "  asked  my  mother.  "  Stay  a  bit ; 
I'll  order  some  lunch  to  be  served  you." 

"  Much  obliged,"  responded  Harlov.  "  But  I  cannot.  .  .  . 
Oh  !  I  must  get  home." 

He  backed  and  was  about  to  move  sideways,  as  his  habit 
was,  through  the  door. 

"  Stop,  stop  a  minute,"  my  mother  went  on,  "  can  you 
possibly  mean  to  make  over  the  whole  of  your  property  with- 
out reserve  to  your  daughters  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  without  reserve." 

"  Well,  but  how  about  yourself — where  are  you  going  to 
live?  " 

Harlov  positively  flung  up  his  hands  in  amazement.  "  You 
ask  where?  In  my  house,  at  home,  as  I've  lived  hitherto  .  .  . 
so  henceforward.     Whatever  difference  could  there  be  ?  " 

"  You  have  such  confidence  in  your  daughters  and  your 
son-in-law,  then?  " 

"  Were  you  pleased  to  speak  of  Volodka  ?  A  poor  stick 
like  him?  Why,  I  can  do  as  I  like  with  him,  whatever  it  is 
.  .  .  what  authority  has  he?  As  for  them,  my  daughters, 
that  is,  to  care  for  me  till  I'm  in  the  grave,  to  give  me  meat 
and  drink,  and  clothe  me.  .  .  .  Merciful  heavens !  .it's  their 
first  duty.  I  shall  not  long  be  an  eyesore  to  them.  Death's 
not  over  the  hills — it's  upon  my  shoulders." 

"  Death  is  in  God's  hands,"  observed  my  mother ;  "  though 
that  is  their  duty,  to  be  sure.  Only  pardon  me,  Martin  Petro- 
vitch ;  your  elder  girl,  Anna,  is  well  known  to  be  proud  and 
imperious,  and — well — the  second  has  a  fierce  look.  .  .  ." 

"  Natalia  Nikolaevna !  "  Harlov  broke  in,  "  why  do  you 
say    that?  .  .  .  Why,    as    though    they  .  .  .  My    daughters 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES  383 

.  .  .  Why,  as  though  I  .  .  .  Forget  their  duty?  Never  in 
their  wildest  dreams  .  .  .  Offer  opposition?  To  whom? 
Their  parent  .  .  .  Dare  to  do  such  a  thing?  Have  they  not 
my  curse  to  fear?  They've  passed  their  life  long  in  fear  and 
in  submission — and  all  of  a  sudden  .  .  .  Good  Lord !  " 

Harlov  choked,  there  was  a  rattle  in  his  throat. 

*'  Very  well,  very  well,"  my  mother  made  haste  to  soothe 
him ;  "  only  I  don't  understand  all  the  same  what  has  put 
it  into  your  head  to  divide  the  property  up  now.  It  would 
have  come  to  them  afterwards,  in  any  case.  I  imagine  it's 
your  melancholy  that's  at  the  bottom  of  it  all." 

"  Eh,  ma'am,"  Harlov  rejoined,  not  without  vexation, 
"  you  will  keep  coming  back  to  that.  There  is,  maybe,  a 
higher  power  at  work  in  this,  and  you  talk  of  melancholy. 
I  thought  to  do  this,  madam,  because  in  my  own  person, 
while  still  in  life,  I  wish  to  decide  in  my  presence,  who  is  to 
possess  what,  and  with  what  I  will  reward  each,  so  that  they 
may  possess,  and  feel  thankfulness,  and  carry  out  my  wishes, 
and  what  their  father  and  benefactor  has  resolved  upon,  they 
may  accept  as  a  bountiful  gift." 

Harlov's  voice  broke  again. 

"  Come,  that's  enough,  that's  enough,  my  good  friend," 
my  mother  cut  him  short ;  "  or  your  raven  colt  will  be  putting 
in  an  appearance  in  earnest." 

"  O  Natalia  Nikolaevna,  don't  talk  to  me  of  it,"  groaned 
Harlov.  "  That's  my  death  come  after  me.  Forgive  my  in- 
trusion. And  you,  my  little  sir,  I  shall  have  the  honour  of 
expecting  you  the  day  after  to-morrow." 

Martin  Petrovitch  went  out ;  my  mother  looked  after  him, 
and  shook  her  head  significantly.  "  This  is  a  bad  business," 
she  murmured,  "  a  bad  business.  You  noticed  " — she  ad- 
dressed herself  to  me — "  he  talked,  and  all  the  while  seemed 
blinking,  as  though  the  sun  were  in  his  eyes;  that's  a  bad 
sign.  When  a  man's  like  that,  his  heart's  sure  to  be  heavy, 
and  misfortune  threatens  him.  You  must  go  over  the  day 
after  to-morrow  with  Vikenty  Osipovitch  and  Souvenir." 

XI 

On  the  day  appointed,  our  big  family  coach,  with  seats 
for  four,  harnessed  with  six  bay  horses,  and  with  the  head 


384      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

coachman,  the  gray-bearded  and  portly  Alexeitch,  on  the  box, 
rolled  smoothly  up  to  the  steps  of  our  house.  The  importance 
of  the  act  upon  which  Harlov  was  about  to  enter,  and  the 
solemnity  with  which  he  had  invited  us,  had  had  their  effect 
on  my  mother.  She  had  herself  given  orders  for  this  ex- 
traordinary state  equipage  to  be  brought  out,  and  had  directed 
Souvenir  and  me  to  put  on  our  best  clothes.  She  obviously 
wished  to  show  respect  to  her  protege.  As  for  Kvitsinsky, 
he  always  wore  a  frock-coat  and  white  tie.  Souvenir  chatted 
like  a  magpie  all  the  way,  giggled,  wondered  whether  his 
brother  would  apportion  him  anything,  and  thereupon  called 
him  a  dummy  and  an  old  fogey.  Kvitsinsky,  a  man  of  severe 
and  bilious  temperament,  could  not  put  up  with  it  at  last. 
"  What  can  induce  you/'  he  observed,  in  his  distinct  Polish 
accent,  "  to  keep  up  such  a  continual  unseemly  chatter?  Can 
you  really  be  incapable  of  sitting  quiet  without  these  *  wholly 
superfluous'  [his  favourite  phrase]  inanities?"  "All  right, 
d'rectly,"  Souvenir  muttered  discontentedly,  and  he  fixed 
his  squinting  eyes  on  the  carriage-window.  A  quarter  of  an 
hour  had  not  passed,  the  smoothly  trotting  horses  had  scarcely 
begun  to  get  warm  under  the  straps  of  their  new  harness, 
when  Harlov's  homestead  came  into  sight.  Through  the 
widely  open  gate,  our  coach  rolled  into  the  yard.  The  diminu- 
tive postillion,  whose  legs  barely  reached  half-way  down  his 
horse's  body,  for  the  last  time  leaped  up  with  a  babyish  shriek 
into  the  soft  saddle,  old  Alexeitch  at  once  spread  out  and 
raised  his  elbows,  a  slight  "  wo-o "  was  heard,  and  we 
stopped.  The  dogs  did  not  bark  to  greet  us,  and  the  serf  boys, 
in  long  smocks  that  gaped  open  over  their  big  stomachs,  had 
all  hidden  themselves.  Harlov's  son-in-law  was  awaiting  us 
in  the  doorway.  I  remember  I  was  particularly  struck  by  the 
birch  boughs  stuck  in  on  both  sides  of  the  steps,  as  though 
it  were  Trinity  Sunday.  "  Grandeur  upon  grandeur,"  Sou- 
venir, who  was  the  first  to  alight,  squeaked  through  his  nose. 
And  certainly  there  was  a  solemn  air  about  everything.  Har- 
lov's son-in-law  was  wearing  a  plush  cravat  with  a  satin  bow, 
and  an  extraordinarily  tight  tail-coat;  while  Maximka,  who 
popped  out  behind  his  back,  had  his  hair  so  saturated  with 
kvas  that  it  positively  dripped.  We  went  into  the  parlour,  and 
saw  Martin  Petrovitch  towering — yes,  positively  towering 
— motionless,  in  the  middle  of  the  room.    I  don't  know  what 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES  3^S 

Souvenir's  and  Kvitsinsky's  feelings  were  at  the  sight  of  his 
colossal  figure;  but  I  felt  something  akin  to  awe.  Martin 
Petrovitch  was  attired  in  a  gray  Cossack  coat — his  militia 
uniform  of  1812  it  must  have  been — with  a  black  stand-up 
collar.  A  bronze  medal  was  to  be  seen  on  his  breast,  a  sabre 
hung  at  his  side;  he  laid  his  left  hand  on  the  hilt,  with  his 
right  he  was  leaning  on  the  table,  which  was  covered  with 
a  red  cloth.  Two  sheets  of  paper,  full  of  writing,  lay  on  the 
table.  Harlov  stood  motionless,  not  even  gasping;  and  what 
dignity  was  expressed  in  his  attitude,  what  confidence  in  him- 
self, in  his  unlimited  and  unquestionable  power !  He  barely 
greeted  us  with  a  motion  of  the  head,  and  barely  articulating 
"  Be  seated !  "  pointed  the  forefinger  of  his  left  hand  in  the 
direction  of  some  chairs  set  in  a  row.  Against  the  right-hand 
wall  of  the  parlour  were  standing  Harlov's  daughters  wear- 
ing their  Sunday  clothes:  Anna,  in  a  shot  lilac-green  dress, 
with  a  yellow  silk  sash ;  Evlampia,  in  pink,  with  crimson 
ribbons.  Near  them  stood  Zhitkov,  in  a  new  uniform,  with 
the  habitual  expression  of  dull  and  greedy  expectation  in  his 
eyes,  and  with  a  greater  profusion  of  sweat  than  usual  over 
his  hirsute  countenance.  On  the  left  side  of  the  room  sat  the 
priest,  in  a  threadbare  snuff-coloured  cassock,  an  old  man, 
with  rough  brown  hair.  This  head  of  hair,  and  the  dejected 
lack-lustre  eyes,  and  the  big  wrinkled  hands,  which  seemed 
a  burden  even  to  himself,  and  lay  like  two  rocks  on  his  knees, 
and  the  tarred  boots  which  peeped  out  beneath  his  cassock, 
all  seemed  to  tell  of  a  joyless  laborious  life.  His  parish  was 
a  very  poor  one.  Beside  him  was  the  local  police  captain, 
a  fattish,  palish,  dirty-looking  little  gentleman,  with  soft 
puffy  little  hands  and  feet,  black  eyes,  black  short-clipped 
mustaches,  a  continual  cheerful  but  yet  sickly  little  smile  on 
his  face.  He  had  the  reputation  of  being  a  great  taker  of 
bribes,  and  even  a  tyrant,  as  the  expression  was  in  those  days. 
But  not  only  the  gentry,  even  the  peasants  were  used  to  him, 
and  liked  him.  He  bent  very  free  and  easy  and  rather  ironical 
looks  around  him ;  it  was  clear  that  all  this  "  procedure " 
amused  him.  In  reality,  the  only  part  that  had  any  interest 
for  him  was  the  light  lunch  and  spirits  in  store  for  us.  But 
the  attorney  sitting  near  him,  a  lean  man  with  a  long  face, 
narrow  whiskers  from  his  ears  to  his  nose,  as  they  were 
worn  in  the  days  of  Alexander  the  First,  was  absorbed  with 


3^6     THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

his  whole  soul  in  Martin  Petrovitch's  proceedings,  and  never 
took  his  big  serious  eyes  off  him.  In  his  concentrated  atten- 
tion and  sympathy,  he  kept  moving  and  twisting  his  lips, 
though  without  opening  his  mouth.  Souvenir  stationed  him- 
self next  him,  and  began  talking  to  him  in  a  whisper,  after 
first  informing  me  that  he  was  the  chief  freemason  in  the 
province.  The  temporary  division  of  the  local  court  consists, 
as  every  one  knows,  of  the  police  captain,  the  attorney,  and 
the  rural  police  commissioner ;  but  the  latter  was  either  absent 
or  kept  himself  in  the  background,  so  that  I  did  not  notice 
him.  He  bore,  however,  the  nickname  "  the  non-existent " 
among  us  in  the  district,  just  as  there  are  tramps  called 
"  the  non-identified."  I  sat  next  Souvenir,  Kvitsinsky  next 
me.  The  face  of  the  practical  Pole  showed  unmistakable 
annoyance  at  our  "  wholly  superfluous  "  expedition,  and  un- 
necessary waste  of  time.  ..."  A  grand  lady's  caprices  !  these 
Russian  grandees'  fancies !  "  he  seemed  to  be  murmuring  to 
himself  ..."  Ugh,  these  Russians  !  " 


XII 

When  we  were  all  seated,  Martin  Petrovitch  hunched  his 
shoulders,  cleared  his  throat,  scanned  us  all  with  his  bearlike 
little  eyes,  and  with  a  noisy  sigh  began  as  follows : 

"  Gentlemen,  I  have  called  you  together  for  the  following 
purpose.  I  am  grown  old,  gentlemen,  and  overcome  by  in- 
firmities. .  .  .  Already  I  have  had  an  intimation,  the  hour  of 
death  steals  on,  like  a  thief  in  the  night.  .  .  .  Isn't  that  so, 
father?"  he  addressed  the  priest. 

The  priest  started.  "  Quite  so,  quite  so,"  he  mumbled,  his 
beard  shaking. 

"  And  therefore,"  continued  Martin  Petrovitch,  suddenly 
raising  his  voice,  "  not  wishing  the  said  death  to  come  upon 
me  unawares,  I  purposed."  .  .  .  Martin  Petrovitch  proceeded 
to  repeat,  word  for  word,  the  speech  he  had  made  to  my 
mother  two  days  before.  "  In  accordance  with  this  my  de- 
termination," he  shouted  louder  than  ever,  "this  deed  [he 
struck  his  hand  on  the  papers  lying  on  the  table]  has  been 
drawn  up  by  me,  and  the  presiding  authorities  have  been  in- 
vited by  me,  and  wherein  my  will  consists  the  following  points 
will  treat.     I  have  ruled,  my  day  is  over !  " 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES  3^7 

Martin  Petrovitch  put  his  round  iron  spectacles  on  his 
nose,  took  one  of  the  written  sheets  from  the  table,  and  began : 

"  Deed  of  partition  of  the  estate  of  the  retired  non-com- 
missioned officer  and  nobleman,  Martin  Harlov,  drawn  up  by 
himself  in  his  full  and  right  understanding,  and  by  his  own 
good  judgment,  and  wherein  is  precisely  defined  what  bene- 
fits are  assigned  to  his  two  daughters,  Anna  and  Evlampia — 
bow! — [tlvey  bowed],  and  in  what  way  the  serfs  and  other 
property,  and  live  stock,  be  apportioned  between  the  said 
daughters  !     Under  my  hand  !  " 

"  This  is  their  document ! "  the  police  captain  whispered 
to  Kvitsinsky,  with  his  invariable  smile,  "  they  want  to  read 
it  for  the  beauty  of  the  style,  but  the  legal  deed  is  made  out 
formally,  without  all  these  flourishes." 

Souvenir  was  beginning  to  snigger.  .  .  . 

"  In  accordance  with  my  will,"  put  in  Harlov,  who  had 
caught  the  police  captain's  remark. 

"  In  accordance  in  every  point,"  the  latter  hastened  to  re- 
spond cheerfully ;  "  only,  as  you're  aware,  Martin  Petrovitch, 
there's  no  dispensing  with  formality.  And  unnecessary  de- 
tails have  been  removed.  For  the  chamber  can't  enter  into 
the  question  of  spotted  cows  and  fancy  drakes." 

"Come  here !  "  boomed  Harlov  to  his  son-in-law,  who  had 
come  into  the  room  behind  us,  and  remained  standing  with  an 
obsequious  air  near  the  door.  He  skipped  up  to  his  father- 
in-law  at  once. 

"  There,  take  it  and  read !  It's  hard  for  me.  Only  mind 
and  don't  mumble  it !  Let  all  the  gentlemen  present  be  able 
to  understand  it." 

Sletkin  took  the  paper  in  both  hands,  and  began  timidly, 
but  distinctly,  and  with  taste  and  feeling,  to  rqad  the  deed  of 
partition.  There  was  set  forth  in  it  with  the  greatest  accu- 
racy just  what  was  assigned  to  Anna  and  what  to  Evlampia, 
and  how  the  division  was  to  be  made.  Harlov  from  time  to 
time  interspersed  the  reading  with  phrases.  "  Do  you  hear, 
that's  for  you,  Anna,  for  your  zeal !  "  Or :  "  That  I  give  you, 
Evlampia  !  "  and  both  the  sisters  bowed,  Anna  from  the  waist, 
Evlampia  simply  with  a  motion  of  the  head.  Harlov  looked 
at  them  with  stern  dignity.  "  The  farmhouse  [the  little 
new  building]  "  was  assigned  by  him  to  Evlampia,  as  the 
younger  daughter,  "  by  the  well-known  custom."    The  read- 


388      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

er's  voice  quivered  and  resounded  at  these  words,  unfavour- 
able for  himself;  while  Zhitkov  licked  his  lips.  Evlampia 
gave  him  a  sidelong  glance ;  had  I  been  in  Zhitkov's  shoes,  I 
should  not  have  liked  that  glance.  The  scornful  expression, 
characteristic  of  Evlampia,  as  of  every  genuine  Russian 
beauty,  had  a  peculiar  shade  at  that  moment.  For  himself 
Martin  Petrovitch  reserved  the  right  to  go  on  living  in  the 
rooms  he  occupied,  and  assigned  to  himself,  under  the  name 
of  "  rations,"  a  full  allowance  "  of  normal  provisions,"  and 
ten  rubles  a  month  for  clothes.  The  last  phrase  of  the  deed 
Harlov  wished  to  read  himself.  "  And  this  my  parental  will," 
it  ran,  "  to  carry  out  and  observe  is  a  sacred  and  binding  duty 
on  my  daughters,  seeing  it  is  a  command;  seeing  that  1  am, 
after  God,  their  father  and  head,  and  am  not  bounden  to 
render  an  account  to  any,  nor  have  so  rendered.  And  do  they 
carry  out  my  will,  so  will  my  fatherly  blessing  be  with  them, 
but  should  they  not  do  so,  which  God  foft)id,  then  will  they 
be  overtaken  by  my  parental  curse  that  cannot  be  averted, 
now  and  forever,  amen  !  "  Harlov  raised  the  deed  high  above 
his  head.  Anna  at  once  dropped  on  her  knees  and  touche(i 
the  ground  with  her  forehead ;  her  husband,  too,  doubkd  u^ 
after  her.  "  Well,  and  you  ?  "  Harlov  turned  to  Evlampia 
She  crimsoned  all  over,  and  she  too  bowed  to  the  ^arch^ 
Zhitkov  bent  his  whole  carcass  forward. 

"  Sign !  "  cried  Harlov,  pointing  his  forefinger  tu  the  bot- 
tom of  the  deed.  "  Here :  *  I  thank  and  accept,  Anna.'  *  I 
thank  and  accept,  Evlampia!'." 

Both  daughters  rose,  and  signed  one  after  another.  Slet- 
kin  rose  too,  and  was  feeling  after  the  pen,  but  Harlov  moved 
him  aside,  sticking  his  middle  finger  into  his  cravat,  so  that 
he  gasped.  The  silence  lasted  a  moment.  Suddenly  Martin 
Petrovitch  gave  a  sort  of  sob,  and  muttering :  "  Well,  now  it's 
all  yours !  "  moved  away.  His  daughters  and  son-in-law 
looked  at  one  another,  went  up  to  him  and  began  kissing  him 
just  above  his  elbow.    His  shoulder  they  could  not  reach. 

XIII 

The  police  captain  read  the  real  formal  document,  the 
deed  of  gift,  drawn  up  by  Martin  Petrovitch.  Then  he  went 
out  on  to  the  steps  with  the  attorney  and  explained  what  had 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES  3^9 

taken  place  to  the  crowd  assembled  at  the  gates,  consisting 
of  the  witnesses  required  by  law  and  other  people  from  the 
neighbourhood,  Harlov's  peasants,  and  a  few  house-serfs. 
Then  began  the  ceremony  of  the  new  owners  entering  into 
possession.  They  came  out,  too,  upon  the  steps,  and  the  police 
captain  pointed  to  them  when,  slightly  scowling  with  one  eye- 
brow, while  his  careless  face  assumed  for  an  instant  a  threat- 
ening air,  he  exhorted  the  crowd  to  "  subofdination."  He 
might  well  have  dispensed  with  these  exhortations:  a  less 
unruly  set  of  countenances  than  those  of  the  Harlov  peasants, 
I  imagine,  have  never  existed  in  creation.  Clothed  in  thin 
smocks  and  torn  sheepskins,  but  very  tightly  girt  round  their 
waists,  as  is  always  the  peasants'  way  on  solemn  occasions, 
they  stood  motionless  as  though  cut  out  of  stone,  and  when- 
ever the  police  captain  uttered  any  exclamation  such  as 
"  D'ye  hear,  you  brutes  ?  D'ye  understand,  you  devils  ?  "  they 
suddenly  bowed  all  at  once,  as  though  at  the  word  of  com- 
mand. Each  of  these  "  brutes  and  devils  "  held  his  cap  tight 
in  both  hands,  and  never  took  his  eyes  off  the  window,  where 
Martin  Petrovitch's  figure  was  visible.  The  witnesses  them- 
selves were  hardly  less  awed.  "  Is  any  impediment  known 
to  you,"  the  police  captain  roared  at  them,  "  against  the  en- 
trance into  possession  of  these  the  sole  and  legitimate  heirs 
and  daughters  of  Martin  Petrovitch  Harlov?" 

All  the  witnesses  seemed  to  huddle  together  at  once. 

"  Do  you  know  any,  you  devils  ? "  the  police  captain 
shouted  again. 

"  We  know  nothing,  your  Excellency,"  responded  sturdily 
a  little  old  man,  marked  with  smallpox,  with  a  clipped  beard 
and  whiskers,  an  old  soldier. 

"  I  say !  Eremeitch's  a  bold  fellow !  "  the  witnesses  said 
of  him  as  they  dispersed. 

In  spite  of  the  police  captain's  entreaties,  Harlov  would 
not  come  out  with  his  daughters  on  to  the  steps.  "  My  sub- 
jects will  obey  my  will  without  that !  "  he  answered.  Some- 
thing like  sadness  had  come  over  him  on  the  completion  of 
the  conveyance.  His  face  had  grown  pale.  This  new  un- 
precedented expression  of  sadness  looked  so  out  of  place  on 
Martin  Petrovitch's  broad  and  kindly  features  that  I  posi- 
tively was  at  a  loss  what  to  think.  Was  an  attack  of  melan- 
choly coming  over  him?    The  peasants,  on  their  side,  too, 


390     THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

were  obviously  puzzled.  And  no  wonder !  "  The  master's 
alive — there  he  stands,  and  such  a  master,  too ;  Martin  Petro- 
vitch !  And  all  of  a  sudden  he  won't  be  their  owner.  .  .  . 
A  queer  thing !  "  I  don't  know  whether  Harlov  had  an  ink- 
ling of  the  notions  that  were  straying  through  his  "  subjects'  " 
heads,  or  whether  he  wanted  to  display  his  power  for  the  last 
time,  but  he  suddenly  opened  the  little  window,  stuck  his 
head  out,  and  shouted  in  a  voice  of  thunder :  "  Obedience !  " 
Then  he  slammed  to  the  window.  The  peasants'  bewilder- 
ment was  certainly  not  dispelled  nor  decreased  by  this  pro- 
ceeding. They  became  stonier  than  ever,  and  even  seemed  to 
cease  looking  at  anything.  The  group  of  house-serfs  (among 
them  were  two  sturdy  wenches,  in  short  chintz  gowns,  with 
muscles  such  as  one  might  perhaps  match  in  Michelan- 
gelo's Last  Judgment,  and  one  utterly  decrepit  old  man,  hoary 
with  age  and  half  blind,  in  a  threadbare  frieze  cloak,  ru- 
moured to  have  been  "  cornet-player  "  in  the  days  of  Potem- 
kin, — the  page  Maximka,  Harlov  had  reserved  for  himself, 
this  group  showed  more  life  than  the  peasants;  at  least,  it 
moved  restlessly  about.  The  new  mistresses  themselves  were 
very  dignified  in  their  attitude,  especially  Anna.  Her  thin 
lips  tightly  compressed,  she  looked  obstinately  down  .  .  .  her 
stern  figure  augured  little  good  to  the  house-serfs.  Evlampia, 
too,  did  not  raise  her  eyes;  only  once  she  turned  round  and 
deliberately,  as  it  were  with  surprise,  scanned  her  betrothed, 
Zhitkov,  who  had  thought  fit,  following  Sletkin,  to  come  out, 
too,  on  to  the  steps.  "  What  business  have  you  here?  "  those 
handsome  prominent  eyes  seemed  to  demand.  Sletkin  was 
the  most  changed  of  all.  A  bustling  cheeriness  showed  itself 
in  his  whole  bearing,  as  though  he  were  overtaken  by  hunger; 
the  movements  of  his  head  and  his  legs  were  as  obsequious  as 
ever,  but  how  gleefully  he  kept  working  his  arms,  how  fussily 
he  twitched  his  shoulder-blades  !  **  Arrived  at  last !  "  he 
seemed  to  say.  Having  finished  the  ceremony  of  the  entrance 
into  possession,  the  police  captain,  whose  mouth  was  literally 
watering  at  the  prospect  of  lunch,  rubbed  his  hands  in  that 
peculiar  manner  which  usually  precedes  the  tossing  off  of  the 
first  glass  of  spirits.  But  it  appeared  that  Martin  Petrovitch 
wished  first  to  have  a  service  performed  with  sprinklings  of 
holy-water.  The  priest  put  on  an  ancient  and  decrepit  chas- 
uble; a  decrepit  deacon  came  out  of  the  kitchen,  with  diffi- 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES  39  ^ 

culty  kindling  the  incense  in  an  old  brazen  church- vessel. 
The  service  began.  Harlov  sighed  continually;  he  was  un- 
able, owing  to  his  corpulence,  to  bow  to  the  ground,  but  cross- 
ing himself  with  his  right  hand  and  bending  his  head,  he 
pointed  with  the  forefinger  of  his  left  hand  to  the  floor.  Slet- 
kin  positively  beamed  and  even  shed  tears.  Zhitkov,  with 
dignity,  in  martial  fashion,  flourished  his  fingers  only  slightly 
between  the  third  and  fourth  button  of  his  uniform.  Kvitsin- 
sky,  as  a  Catholic,  remained  in  the  next  room.  But  the  attor- 
ney prayed  so  fervently,  sighed  so  sympathetically  after  Mar- 
tin Petrovitch,  and  so  persistently  muttered  and  chewed  his 
lips,  turning  his  eyes  upward,  that  I  felt  moved,  as  I  looked 
at  him,  and  began  to  pray  fervently  too.  At  the  conclusion 
of  the  service  and  the  sprinkling  with  holy-water,  during 
which  every  one  present,  even  the  blind  cornet-player,  the 
contemporary  of  Potemkin,  even  Kvitsinsky,  moistened  their 
eyes  with  holy-water,  Anna  and  Evlampia  once  more,  at  Mar- 
tin Petrovitch's  bidding,  prostrated  themselves  to  the  ground 
to  thank  him.  Then  at  last  came  the  moment  of  lunch.  There 
were  a  great  many  dishes  and  all  very  nice ;  we  all  ate  terri- 
bly much.  The  inevitable  bottle  of  Don  wine  made  its  ap- 
pearance. The  police  captain,  who  was  of  all  of  us  the  most 
familiar  with  the  usages  of  the  world,  and  besides,  the  repre- 
sentative of  government,  was  the  first  to  propose  the  toast 
to  the  health  "  of  the  fair  proprietresses  !  "  Then  he  pro- 
posed we  should  drink  to  the  health  of  our  most  honoured 
and  most  generous-hearted  friend,  Martin  Petrovitch.  At 
the  words  "  most  generous-hearted,"  Sletkin  uttered  a  shrill 
little  cry  and  ran  to  kiss  his  benefactor.  ..."  There,  that'll 
do,  that'll  do,"  muttered  Harlov,  as  it  were  with  annoyance, 
keeping  him  off  with  his  elbow.  .  .  .  But  at  this  point  a  not 
quite  pleasant,  as  they  say,  incident  took  place. 


XIV 

Souvenir,  who  had  been  drinking  continuously  ever  since 
the  beginning  of  luncheon,  suddenly  got  up  from  his  chair 
as  red  as  a  beet-root,  and  pointing  his  finger  at  Martin  Petro- 
vitch, went  off  into  his  mawkish,  paltry  laugh. 

"  Generous-hearted !  Generous-hearted !  "  he  began  croak- 


392      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

ing;  "but  we  shall  see  whether  this  generosity  will  be 
much  to  his  taste  when  he's  stripped  naked,  the  servant  of 
God  .  .  .  and  out  in  the  snow,  too !  " 

"  What  rot  are  you  talking,  fool  ?  "  said  Harlov  contemp- 
tuously. 

"  Fool !  fool !  "  repeated  Souvenir.  "  God  Almighty  alone 
knows  which  of  us  is  the  real  fool.  But  you,  brother,  did 
my  sister,  your  wife,  to  her  death,  and  now  you've  done  for 
yourself  .  .  .  ha-ha-ha !  " 

"  How  dare  you  insult  our  honoured  benefactor?  "  Sletkin 
began  shrilly,  and,  tearing  himself  away  from  Martin  Petro- 
vitch,  whose  shoulder  he  had  clutched,  he  flew  at  Souvenir. 
"  But  let  me  tell  you,  if  our  benefactor  desires  it,  we  can  can- 
cel the  deed  this  very  minute  !  " 

"  And  yet,  you'll  strip  him  naked,  and  turn  him  out  into 
the  snow  ..."  returned  Souvenir,  retreating  behind  Kvit- 
sinsky. 

*'  Silence  !  "  thundered  Harlov.  "  I'll  pound  you  into  a 
jelly  !  And  you  hold  your  tongue  too,  puppy  !  "  he  turned  to 
Sletkin ;  "  don't  put  in  your  word  where  you're  not  wanted ! 
If  I,  Martin  Petrovitch  Harlov,  have  decided  to  make  a  deed 
of  partition,  who  can  cancel  the  same  act  against  my  will? 
Why,  in  tltfe  whole  world  there  is  no  power  .  .  ." 

"  Martin  Petrovitch  !  "  the  attorney  began  in  a  mellow 
bass — he  too  had  drunk  a  good  deal,  but  his  dignity  was  only 
increased  thereby — "  but  how  if  the  gentleman  has  spoken 
the  truth  ?  You  have  done  a  generous  action,  to  be  sure,  but 
how  if  God  forbid — in  reality,  in  place  of  fitting  gratitude, 
some  affront  come  of  it?" 

I  stole  a  glance  at  both  Martin  Petrovitch's  daughters. 
Anna's  eyes  were  simply  pinned  upon  the  speaker,  and  a  face 
more  spiteful,  more  snakelike,  and  more  beautiful  in  its  very 
spite  I  had  certainly  never  seen.  Evlampia  sat  turned  away, 
with  her  arms  folded.  A  smile  more  scornful  than  ever 
curved  her  full,  rosy  lips. 

Harlov  got  up  from  his  chair,  opened  his  mouth,  but 
apparently  his  tongue  failed  him.  ...  He  suddenly  brought 
his  fist  down  on  the  table,  so  that  everything  in  the  room 
danced  and  rang. 

"  Father,"  Anna  said  hurriedly,  "  they  do  not  know  us,  and 
that  is  why  they  judge  of  us  so.     But  don't,  please,  make 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES  393 

yourself  ill.     You  are  angered  for  nothing,  indeed;  see,  your 
face  is,  as  it  were,  twisted  awry." 

Harlov  looked  towards  Evlampia ;  she  did  not  stir,  though 
Zhitkov,  sitting  beside  her,  gave  her  a  poke  in  the  side. 

,  "  Thank  you,  my  daughter  Anna,"  said  Harlov  huskily ; 
"  you  are  a  sensible  girl ;  I  rely  upon  you  and  on  your  hus- 
band too."  Sletkin  once  more  gave  vent  to  a  shrill  little 
sound;  Zhitkov  expanded  his  chest  and  gave  a  little  scrape 
with  his  foot ;  but  Harlov  did  not  observe  his  efforts.  "  This 
dolt,"  he  went  on,  with  a  motion  of  his  chin  in  the  direction 
of  Souvenir,  "  is  pleased  to  get  a  chance  to  tease  me ;  but  you, 
my  dear  sir,"  he  addressed  himself  to  the  attorney,  "  it  is  not 
for  you  to  pass  judgment  on  Martin  Harlov;  that  is  some- 
thing beyond  you.  Though  you  are  a  man  in  official  position-, 
your  words  are  most  foolish.  Besides,  the  deed  is  done,  there 
will  be  no  going  back  from  my  determination.  .  .  .  Now,  I 
will  wish  you  good  day,  I  am  going  away.  .  I  am  no  longer 
the  master  of  this  house,  but  a  guest  in  it.  Anna,  do  you 
do  your  best ;  but  I  will  go  to  my  own  room.    Enough  !  " 

Martin  Petrovitch  turned  his  back  on  us,  and,  without 
adding  another  word,  walked  deliberately  out  of  the  room. 

This  sudden  withdrawal  on  the  part  of  our  host  could 
not  but  break  up  the  party,  especially  as  the  two  hostesses 
also  vanished  not  long  after.  Sletkin  vainly  tried  to  keep 
us.  The  police  captain  did  not  fail  to  blame  the  attorney 
for  his  uncalled-for  candour.  "  Couldn't  help  it !  "  the  latter 
responded.  ..."  My  conscience  spoke." 

"  There,  you  see  that  he's  a  mason,"  Souvenir  whispered 
lo  me. 

"  Conscience  !  "  retorted  the  police  captain.  "  We  know 
all  about  your  conscience !  I  suppose  it's  in  your  pocket, 
just  the  same  as  it  is  with  us  sinners !  " 

The  priest,  meanwhile,  even  though  already  on  his  feet, 
foreseeing  the  speedy  termination  of  the  repast,  lifted  mouth- 
ful after  mouthful  to  his  mouth  without  a  pause. 

"  You've  got  a  fine  appetite,  I  see,"  Sletkin  observed  to 
him  sharply. 

"  Storing  up  for  the  future,"  the  priest  responded  with  a 
meek  grimace ;  years  of  hunger  were  expressed  in  that  reply. 

The  carriages  rattled  up  .  .  .  and  we  separated.    On  the 
way   home,  no  one  hindered   Souvenir's  chatter   and   silly 
*;6 


394  THE  BOOK  OF  THE   SHORT  STORY 

tricks,  as  Kvitsinsky  had  announced  that  he  was  sick  of  all 
this  "  wholly  superfluous  "  unpleasantness,  and  had  set  off 
home  before  us  on  foot.  In  his  place,  Zhitkov  took  a  seat 
in  our  coach.  The  retired  major  wore  a  most  dissatisfied 
expression,  and  kept  twitching  his  mustaches  like  a  spider. 

*'  Well,  your  noble  Excellency,"  lisped  Souvenir,  "  is  sub- 
ordination exploded,  eh?  Wait  a  bit  and  see  what  will  hap- 
pen !  They'll  give  you  the  sack  too.  Ah,  a  poor  bridegroom 
you  are,  a  poor  bridegroom,  an  unlucky  bridegroom !  " 

Souvenir  was  positively  beside  himself;  while  poor  Zhit- 
kov could  do  nothing  but  twitch  his  mustaches. 

When  I  got  home  I  told  my  mother  all  I  had  seen.  She 
heard  me  to  the  end,  and  shook  her  head  several  times.  "  It's 
a  bad  business,"  was  her  comment.  "  I  don't  like  all  these 
innovations ! " 


XV 

Next  day  Martin  Petrovitch  came  to  dinner.  My  mother 
congratulated  him  on  the  successful  conclusion  of  his  project. 
"  You  are  now  a  free  man,"  she  said,  "  and  ought  to  feel 
more  at  ease." 

"  More  at  ease,  to  be  sure,  madam,"  answered  Martin 
Petrovitch,  by  no  means,  however,  showing  in  the  expression 
of  his  face  that  he  really  was  more  at  ease.  "  Now  I  can 
meditate  upon  my  soul,  and  make  ready  for  my  last  hour, 
as  I  ought." 

"  Well,"  queried  my  mother,  "  and  do  the  shooting  pains 
still  tingle  in  your  arms?" 

Harlov  twice  clenched  and  unclenched  his  left  arm. 
"  They  do,  madam ;  and  I've  something  else  to  tell  you.  As 
I  begin  to  drop  asleep,  some  one  cries  in  my  head:  'Take 
care  ! '    *  Take  care  ! '  " 

"  That's  nerves,"  observed  my  mother,  and  she  began 
speaking  of  the  previous  day,  and  referred  to  certain  cir- 
cumstances which  had  attended  the  completion  of  the  deed 
of  partition.  ... 

"  To  be  sure,  to  be  sure,"  Harlov  interrupted  her,  "  there 
was  something  of  the  sort  ...  of  no  consequence.  Only 
there's  something  I  would  tell  you,"  he  added,  hesitating — 
"  I  was  not  disturbed  yesterday  by  Souvenir's  silly  words— 


A  LEAR  OF  tHE  STEPPES  395 

even  Mr.  Attorney,  though  he's  no  fool — even  he  did  not 
trouble  me ;  no,  it  was  quite  another  person  disturbed  me — " 
Here  Harlov  faltered. 

"  Who  ?  "  asked  my  mother. 

Harlov  fastened  his  eyes  upon  her ;  "  Evlampia  !  " 

"  Evlampia  ?    Your  daughter  ?     How  was  that  ?  " 

"  Upon  my  word,  madam,  she  was  like  a  stone !  nothing 
but  a  statue!  Can  it  be  she  has  no  feeling?  Her  sister, 
Anna — wdl,  she  was  all  she  should  be.  She's  a  keen-witted 
creature  !  But  Evlampia — why,  I'd  shown  her — I  must  own 
— so  much  partiality !  Can  it  be  she's  no  feeling  for  me ! 
It's  clear  I'm  in  a  bad  way ;  it's  clear  I've  a  feeling  that  I'm 
not  long  for  this  world,  since  I  make  over  everything  to 
them ;  and  yet  she's  like  a  stone !  she  might  at  least  utter  a 
sound !  Bows — yes,  she  bows,  but  there's  no  thankfulness  to 
be  seen." 

"  There,  give  over,"  observed  my  mother,  "  we'll  marry 
her  to  Gavrila  Fedulitch  .  .  .  she'll  soon  get  softer  in  his 
hands." 

Martin  Petrovitch  once  more  looked  from  under  his  brows 
at  my  mother.  "  Well,  there's  Gavrila  Fedulitch,  to  be  sure ! 
You  have  confidence  in  him,  then,  madam?" 

"  I've  confidence  in  him." 

"  Very  well ;  you  should  know  best,  to  be  sure.  But  Ev- 
lampia, let  me  tell  you,  is  like  me.  The  character  is  just  the 
same.  She  has  the  wild  Cossack  blood,  and  her  heart's  like 
a  burning  coal !  " 

*'  Why,  do  you  mean  to  tell  me  you've  a  heart  like  that, 
my  dear  sir?  " 

Harlov  made  no  answer.    A  brief  silence  followed. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do,  Martin  Petrovitch,"  my 
mother  began,  "  in  what  way  do  you  mean  to  set  about  saving 
your  soul  now?  Will  you  set  off  to  Mitrophan  or  to  Kiev, 
or  maybe  you'll  go  to  the  Optin  desert,  as  it's  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood ?  There,  they  do  say,  there's  a  holy  monk  appeared 
.  .  .  Father  Makary  they  call  him,  no  one  remembers  any 
one  like  him !     He  sees  right  through  all  sins." 

"  If  she  really  turns  out  an  ungrateful  daughter,"  Harlov 
enunciated  in  a  husky  voice,  "  then  it  would  be  better  for  me, 
I  believe,  to  kill  her  with  my  own  hands  !  " 

"What  are  you  saying !  Lord,  have  mercy  on  you !  " 
cried  my  mother.     "  Think  what  you're  saying  !    There,  see, 


39^     tHE  BOOK:  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

what  a  pretty  pass  it's  come  to.  You  should  have  listened 
to  me  the  other  day  when  you  came  to  consult  me !  Now, 
here,  you'll  go  tormenting  yourself,  instead  of  thinking  of 
your  soul !  You'll  be  tormenting  yourself,  and  all  to  no 
purpose !  Yes !  Here  you're  complaining  now,  and  faint- 
hearted ..." 

This  reproach  seemed  to  stab  Harlov  to  the  heart.  All  his 
old  pride  came  back  to  him  with  a  rush.  He  shook  himself, 
and  thrust  out  his  chin.  "  I  am  not  a  man,  madam,  Natalia 
Nikolaevna,  to  complain  or  be  faint-hearted,"  he  began  sul- 
lenly. "  I  simply  wished  to  reveal  my  feelings  to  you  as  my 
benefactress  and  a  person  I  respect.  But  the  Lord  God 
knows  [here  he  raised  his  hand  high  above  his  head]  that 
this  globe  of  earth  may  crumble  to  pieces  before  I  will  go 
back  from  my  word,  or  .  .  .  [here  he  positively  snorted] 
show  a  faint  heart,  or  regret  what  I  have  done !  I  had  good 
reasons,  be  sure !  My  daughters  will  never  forget  their 
duty,  forever  and  ever.    Amen  !  " 

My  mother  stopped  her  ears.  "  What's  this  for,  my  good 
sir,  like  a  trumpet-blast !  If  you  really  have  such  faith  in 
your  family,  well,  praise  the  Lord  for  it !  You've  quite  put 
my  brains  in  a  whirl !  " 

Martin  Petrovitch  begged  pardon,  sighed  twice,  and  was 
silent.  My  mother  once  more  referred  to  Kiev,  the  Optin 
desert,  and  Father  Makary.  .  .  .  Harlov  assented,  said  that 
"  he  must  ...  he  must  ...  he  would  have  to  .  .  .  his  soul " 
.  .  .  and  that  was  all.  He  did  not  regain  his  cheerfulness 
before  he  went  away.  From  time  to  time  he  clenched  and 
unclenched  his  fist,  looked  at  his  open  hand,  said  that  what 
he  feared  above  everything  was  dying  without  repentance, 
from  a  stroke,  and  that  he  had  made  a  vow  to  himself  not  to 
get  angry,  as  anger  vitiated  his  blood  and  drove  it  to  his 
head.  .  .  .  Besides,  he  had  now  withdrawn  from  every- 
thing. What  grounds  could  he  have  for  getting  angry? 
Let  other  people  trouble  themselves  now  and  vitiate  their 
blood ! 

As  he  took  leave  of  my  mother  he  looked  at  her  in  a 
strange  way,  mournfully  and  questioningly  .  .  .  and  sud- 
denly, with  a  rapid  movement,  drew  out  of  his  pocket  the 
volume  of  The  Worker's  Leisure  Hour,  and  thrust  it  into 
my  mother's  hand. 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES  397 

"What's  that?"  she  inquired. 

"  Read  .  .  .  here,"  he  said  hurriedly,  "  where  the  cor- 
ner's turned  down,  about  death.  It  seems  to  me,  it's  terribly 
well  said,  but  I  can't  make  it  out  at  all.  Can't  you  explain 
it  to  me,  my  benefactress?  I'll  come  back  again  and  you 
explain  it  me." 

With  these  words  Martin  Petrovitch  went  away. 

"  He's  in  a  bad  way,  he's  in  a  bad  way,"  observed  my 
mother,  directly  he  had  disappeared  through  the  doorway, 
and  she  set  to  work  upon  The  Leisure  Hour.  On  the  page 
turned  down  by  Harlov  were  the  following  words : 

"  Death  is  a  grand  and  solemn  work  of  nature.  It  is 
nothing  else  than  that  the  spirit,  inasmuch  as  it  is  lighter, 
finer,  and  infinitely  more  penetrating  than  those  elements 
under  whose  sway  it  has  been  subject,  nay,  even  than  the 
force  of  electricity  itself,  so  is  chemically  purified  and  striveth 
upward  till  what  time  it  attaineth  an  equally  spiritual  abiding- 
place  for  itself  .  .  ."  and  so  on. 

My  mother  read  this  passage  through  twice,  and  exclaim- 
ing :  "  Pooh  !  "  she  flung  the  book  away. 

Three  days  later,  she  received  the  news  that  her  sister's 
husband  was  dead,  and  set  off  to  her  sister's  country-seat, 
taking  me  with  her.  My  mother  proposed  to  spend  a  month 
with  her,  but  she  stayed  on  till  late  in  the  autumn,  and  it  was 
only  at  the  end  of  September  that  we  returned  to  our  own 
estate. 

XVI 

The  first  news  with  which  my  valet,  Prokofy,  greeted  me 
(he  regarded  himself  as  the  seignorial  huntsman)  was  that 
there  was  an  immense  number  of  wild  snipe  on  the  wing, 
and  that  in  the  birch-copse  near  Eskovo  (Harlov's  property), 
especially,  they  were  simply  swarming.  I  had  three  hours 
before  me  till  dinner-time.  I  promptly  seized  my  gun  and 
my  game-bag,  and  with  Prokofy  and  a  setter  dog  hastened 
to  the  Eskovo  copse.  We  certainly  did  find  a  great  many 
wild  snipe  there,  and,  firing  about  thirty  charges,  killed  five. 
As  I  hurried  homewards  with  my  booty,  I  saw  a  peasant 
ploughing  near  the  roadside.  His  horse  had  stopped,  and 
with  tearful  and  angry  abuse  he  was  mercilessly  tugging  with 
the  cord  reins  at  the  animal's  head,  which  was  bent  on  one 


39^      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

side.  I  looked  attentively  at  the  luckless  beast,  whose  ribs 
were^all  but  through  its  skin,  and,  bathed  in  sweat,  heaved  up 
and  down  with  convulsive,  irregular  movements  like  a  black- 
smith's bellows.  I  recognised  it  at  once  as  the  decrepit  old 
mare,  with  the  scar  on  her  shoulder,  who  had  served  Martin 
Petrovitch  so  many  years. 

"Is  Mr.  Harlov  living?"  I  asked  Prokofy.  The  chase 
had  so  completely  absorbed  us,  that  up  to  that  instant  we 
had  not  talked  of  anything. 

"Yes,  he's  alive.     Why?" 

"  But  that's  his  mare,  isn't  it  ?  Do  you  mean  to  say  he's 
sold  her?  " 

"His  mare  it  is,  to  be  sure;  but  as  to  selling,  he  never 
sold  her.  But  they  took  her  away  from  him,  and  handed  her 
over  to  that  peasant." 

"  How,  took  it  ?    And  he  consented  ?  " 

"  They  never  asked  his  consent.  Things  have  changed 
here  in  your  absence,"  Prokofy  observed,  with  a  taint  smile 
in  response  to  my  look  of  amazement ;  "  worse  luck !  My 
goodness,  yes !  Now  Sletkin's  master,  and  orders  every  one 
about." 

"  But  Martin  Petrovitch  ?  " 

"  Why,  Martin  Petrovitch  has  become  the  very  last  per- 
son here,  you  may  say.  He's  on  bread  and  water — what 
more  can  one  say?  They've  crushed  him  altogether.  Mark 
my  words;  they'll  drive  him  out  of  the  house." 

The  idea  that  it  was  possible  to  drive  such  a  giant  had 
never  entered  my  head.  "  And  what  does  Zhitkov  say  to  it  ?  " 
I  asked  at  last.  "  I  suppose  he's  married  to  the  second 
daughter?" 

"Married?"  repeated  Prokofy,  and  this  time  he  grinned 
all  over  his  face.  "  They  won't  let  him  into  the  house.  *  We 
don't  want  you,'  they  say ;  *  get  along  home  with  you.'  It's 
as  I  said;  Sletkin  directs  every  one." 

"  But  what  does  the  young  lady  say  ?  " 

"  Evlampia  Martinovna  ?  Ah,  master,  I  could  tell  you 
.  .  .  but  you're  young — one  must  think  of  that.  Things  are 
going  on  here  that  are  ...  oh  !  ...  oh !  ...  oh  !  Hey ! 
v^hy  Dianka's  setting,  I  do  believe  !  " 

My  dog  actually  had  stopped  short,  before  a  thick  oak- 
bush  which  bordered  a  narrow  ravine  by  the  roadside.    Pro- 


A  LEAR   OF  THE  STEPPES  399 

kofy  and  I  ran  up  to  the  dog ;  a  snipe  flew  up  out  of  the  bush, 
we  both  fired  at  it  and  missed;  the  snipe  settled  in  another 
place;  we  followed  it. 

The  soup  was  already  on  the  table  when  I  got  back.  My 
mother  scolded  me.  "  What's  the  meaning  of  it  ?  "  she  said 
with  displeasure ;  "  the  very  first  day,  and  you  keep  us  wait- 
ing for  dinner."  I  brought  her  the  wild  snipe  I  had  killed; 
she  did  not  even  look  at  them.  There  were  also  in  the  room 
Souvenir,  Kvitsinsky,  and  Zhitkov.  The  retired  major  was 
huddled  in  a  corner,  for  all  the  world  like  a  schoolboy  in 
disgrace.  His  face  wore  an  expression  of  mingled  confusion 
and  annoyance ;  his  eyes  were  red.  .  .  .  One  might  positively 
have  imagined  he  had  recently  been  in  tears.  My  mother 
remained  in  an  ill  humour.  I  was  at  no  great  pains  to  sur- 
mise that  my  late  arrival  did  not  count  for  much  in  it.  Dur- 
ing dinner-time  she  hardly  talked  at  all.  The  major  turned 
beseeching  glances  upon  her  from  time  to  time,  but  ate  a 
good  dinner  nevertheless.  Souvenir  was  all  of  a  shake. 
Kvitsinsky  preserved  his  habitual  self-confidence  of  de- 
meanour. 

"  Vikenty  Osipitch,"  my  mother  addressed  him,  "  I  beg 
you  to  send  a  carriage  to-morrow  for  Martin  Petrovitch, 
since  it  has  come  to  my  knowledge  that  he  has  none  of  his 
own.  And  bid  them  tell  him  to  come  without  fail,  that  I 
desire  to  see  him." 

Kvitsinsky  was  about  to  make  some  rejoinder,  but  he 
restrained  himself. 

"  And  let  Sletkin  know,"  continued  my  mother,  "  that  I 
command  him  to  present  himself  before  me  .  .  .  Do  you 
hear?    I  com  .  .  .  mand !  " 

"  Yes,  just  so  .  .  .  that  scoundrel  ought — "  Zhitkov  was 
beginning  in  a  subdued  voice ;  but  my  mother  gave  him  such 
a  contemptuous  look,  that  he  promptly  turned  away  and  was 
silent. 

"  Do  you  hear?     I  command !  "  repeated  my  mother. 

"  Certainly,  madam,"  Kvitsinsky  replied  submissively  but 
with  dignity. 

"  Martin  Petrovitch  won't  come  !  "  Souvenir  whispered  to 
me,  as  he  came  out  of  the  dining-room  with  me  after  dinner. 
"  You  should  just  see  what's  happened  to  him !  It's  past 
comprehension !     It's  come  to  this,  that  whatever  they  say  to 


400  THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

him,  he  doesn't  understand  a  word !    Yes  !    They've  got  the 
snake  under  the  pitchfork  !  " 

And  Souvenir  went  off  into  his  revolting  laugh. 


XVII 

Souvenir's  prediction  turned  out  correct.  Martin  Petro- 
vitch  would  not  come  to  my  mother.  She  was  not  at  all 
pleased  with  this,  and  despatched  a  letter  to  him.  He  sent 
her  a  square  bit  of  paper,  on  which  the  following  words  were 
written  in  big  letters :  "  Indeed  I  can't.  I  should  die  of 
shame.  Let  me  go  to  my  ruin.  Thanks.  Don't  torture  me. — 
Martin  Harlov."  Sletkin  did  come,  but  not  on  the  day  on 
which  my  mother  had  "  commanded "  his  attendance,  but 
twenty-four  hours  later.  My  mother  gave  orders  that  he 
should  be  shown  into  her  boudoir.  .  .  .  God  knows  what  their 
interview  was  about,  but  it  did  not  last  long ;  a  quarter  of  an 
hour,  not  more.  Sletkin  came  out  of  my  mother's  room,  crim- 
son all  over,  and  with  such  a  viciously  spiteful  and  insolent 
expression  of  face,  that,  meeting  him  in  the  drawing-room,  I 
was  simply  petrified,  while  Souvenir,  who  was  hanging  about 
there,  stopped  short  in  the  middle  of  a  snigger.  My  mother 
came  out  of  her  boudoir,  also  very  red  in  the  face,  and  an- 
nounced, in  the  hearing  of  all,  that  Mr.  Sletkin  was  never, 
upon  any  pretext,  to  be  admitted  to  her  presence  again,  and 
that  if  Martin  Petrovitch's  daughters  were  to  make  bold — 
they've  impudence  enough,  said  she — to  present  themselves, 
they,  too,  were  to  be  refused  admittance.  At  dinner-time  she 
suddenly  exclaimed :  "  The  vile  little  Jew !  I  picked  him 
out  of  the  gutter,  I  made  him  a  career,  he  owes  everything, 
everything  to  me — and  he  dares  to  tell  me  I've  no  business 
to  meddle  in  their  affairs !  that  Martin  Petrovitch  is  full  of 
whims  and  fancies,  and  it's  impossible  to  humour  him  I 
Humour  him,  indeed !  What  a  thing  to  say !  Ah,  he's  an 
ungrateful  wretch  !    An  insolent  little  Jew  !  " 

Major  Zhitkov,  who  happened  to  be  one  of  the  company 
at  dinner,  imagined  that  now  it  was  no  less  than  the  will  of 
the  Almighty  for  him  to  seize  the  opportunity  and  put  in 
his  word  .  .  .  but  my  mother  promptly  settled  him.  "  Well, 
and  you're  a  fine  one,  too,  my  man ! "  she  commented. 
"Couldn't  get  the  upper  hand  of  a  girl,  and  he  an  officer! 


A  LEAR   OF   THE  STEPPES  40I 

In  command  of  a  squadron  !  I  can  fancy  how  it  obeyed  you ! 
He  take  a  steward's  place  indeed  !  a  fine  steward  he'd  make  !  " 

Kvitsinsky,  who  was  sitting  at  the  end  of  the  table,  smiled 
to  himself  a  little  malignantly,  while  poor  Zhitkov  could  do 
nothing  but  twitch  his  mustaches,  lift  his  eyebrows,  and  bury 
the  whole  of  his  hirsute  countenance  in  his  napkin. 

After  dinner,  he  went  out  on  to  the  steps  to  smoke  his 
pipe  as  usual,  and  he  struck  me  as  so  miserable  and  forlorn, 
that,  although  I  had  never  liked  him,  I  joined  myself  on  to 
him  at  once. 

"  How  was  it,  Gavrila  Fedulitch,"  I  began  without  further 
beating  about  the  bush,  "  that  your  affair  with  Evlampia 
Martinovna  was  broken  off?  I'd  expected  you  to  be  mar- 
ried long  ago." 

The  retired  major  looked  at  me  dejectedly. 

"  A  snake  in  the  grass,"  he  began,  uttering  each  letter  of 
each  syllable  with  bitter  distinctness,  "  has  poisoned  me  with 
his  fang,  and  turned  all  my  hopes  in  life  to  ashes.  And  I 
could  tell  you,  Dmitri  Semyonovitch,  all  his  hellish  wiles, 
but  I'm  afraid  of  angering  your  mamma.  ["  You're  young 
yet " — Prokofy's  expression  flashed  across  my  mind.]  Even 
as  it  is — "  Zhitkov  groaned. 

"  Patience  .  .  .  patience  .  .  .  nothing  else  is  left  me." 
He  struck  his  fist  upon  his  chest.  "  Patience,  old  soldier, 
patience.  I  served  the  Czar  faithfully  .  .  .  honourably  .  .  . 
yes.  I  spared  neither  blood  nor  sweat,  and  now  see  what  I 
am  brought  to.  Had  it  been  in  the  regiment — and  the  matter 
depending  upon  me,"  he  continued  after  a  short  silence,  spent 
in  convulsively  sucking  at  his  cherry-wood  pipe,  "  I'd  have 
...  I'd  have  given  it  him  with  the  flat  side  of  my  sword  .  .  . 
three  times  over  .  .  .  till  he'd  had  enough.  .  .  ." 

Zhitkov  took  the  pipe  out  of  his  mouth,  and  fixed  his 
eyes  on  vacancy,  as  though  admiring  the  picture  he  had  con- 
jured up. 

Souvenir  ran  up,  and  began  quizzing  the  major.  I  turned 
away  from  them,  and  determined,  come  what  may,  I  would 
see  Martin  Petrovitch  with  my  own  eyes.  .  .  .  My  boyish 
curiosity  was  greatly  stirred. 


402      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 


XVIII 

Next  day  I  set  out  with  my  gun  and  dog,  but  without 
Prokofy,  to  the  Eskovo  copse.  It  was  an  exquisite  day;  I 
fancy  there  are  no  days  like  that  in  September  anywhere  but 
in  Russia.  The  stillness  was  such  that  one  could  hear,  a 
hundred  paces  off,  the  squirrel  hopping  over  the  dry  leaves, 
and  the  broken  twig  just  feebly  catching  at  the  other  branches, 
and  falling,  at  last,  on  the  soft  grass — to  lie  there  forever, 
not  to  stir  again  till  it.  rotted  away.  The  air,  neither  warm 
nor  chill,  but  only  fragrant,  and  as  it  were  keen,  was  faintly, 
deliciously  stinging  in  my  eyes  and  on  my  cheeks.  A  long 
spider-web,  delicate  as  a  silken  thread,  with  a  white  ball  in 
the  middle,  floated  smoothly  in  the  air,  and  sticking  to  the 
butt-end  of  my  gun,  stretched  straight  out  in  the  air — a  sign 
of  settled  and  warm  weather.  The  sun  shone  with  a  bright- 
ness as  soft  as  moonlight.  Wild  snipe  were  to  be  met  with 
pretty  often;  but  I  did  not  pay  special  attention  to  them.  I 
knew  that  the  copse  went  on  almost  to  Harlov's  homestead, 
right  up  to  the  hedge  of  his  garden,  and  I  turned  my  steps 
in  that  direction,  though  I  could  not  even  imagine  how  I 
should  get  into  the  place  itself,  and  was  even  doubtful  whether 
I  ought  to  try  to  do  so,  as  my  mother  was  so  angry  with  its 
new  owners.  Sounds  of  life  and  humanity  reached  me  from 
no  great  distance.  I  listened.  .  .  .  Some  one  was  coming 
through  the  copse  .  .  .  straight  towards  me. 

"  You  should  have  said  so  straight  out,  dear,"  I  heard  a 
woman's  voice. 

"  Be  reasonable,"  another  voice  broke  in,  the  voice  of  a 
man.    "  Can  one  do  it  all  at  once  ?  " 

I  knew  the  voices.  There  was  the  gleam  of  a  woman's 
blue  gown  through  the  reddening  nut-bushes.  Beside  it  stood 
a  dark  full  coat.  Another  instant — and  there  stepped  out 
into  the  glade,  five  paces  from  me,  Sletkin  and  Evlampia. 

They  were  disconcerted  at  once.  Evlampia  promptly 
stepped  back,  away  into  the  bushes.  Sletkin  thought  a  little, 
and  came  up  to  me.  There  was  not  a  trace  to  be  seen  in  his 
face  of  the  obsequious  meekness  with  which  he  had  paced 
up  and  down  Harlov's  courtyard,  four  months  before,  rub- 
bing up  my  horse's  snaffle.    But  neither  could  I  perceive  in  it 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES  403 

the  insolent  defiance,  which  had  so  struck  me  on  the  previous 
day,  on  the  threshold  of  my  mother's  boudoir.  It  was  still 
as  white  and  pretty  as  ever,  but  seemed  broader  and  more 
solid. 

"  Well,  have  you  shot  many  snipe  ?  "  he  asked  me,  raising 
his  cap,  smiling,  and  passing  his  hand  over  his  black  curls; 
"  you  are  shooting  in  our  copse.  .  .  .  You  are  very  welcome. 
We  would  not  hinder  you.  .  .  .  Quite  the  contrary." 

"  I  have  killed  nothing  to-day,"  I  rejoined,  answering 
his  first  question;  "and  I  will  go  out  of  your  copse  this 
instant." 

Sletkin  hurriedly  put  on  his  cap.  "  Indeed,  why  so  ?  We 
would  not  drive  you  out — indeed,  we're  delighted.  .  .  .  Here's 
Evlampia  Martinovna  will  say  the  same.  Evlampia  Martin- 
ovna,  come  here.  Where  have  you  hidden  yourself?"  Ev- 
lampia's  head  appeared  behind  the  bushes.  But  she  did  not 
come  up  to  us.  She  had  grown  prettier,  and  seemed  taller 
and  bigger  than  ever. 

"  I'm  very  glad,  to  tell  the  truth,"  Sletkin  went  on,  "  that 
I  have  met  you.  Though  you  are  still  young  in  years,  you 
have  plenty  of  good  sense  already.  Your  mother  was  pleased 
to  be  very  angry  with  me  yesterday — she  would  not  listen  to 
reason  of  any  sort  from  me,  but  I  declare,  as  before  God,  so 
before  you  now,  I  am  not  to  blame  in  any  way.  We  can't 
treat  Martin  Petrovitch  otherwise  than  we  do;  he's  fallen 
into  complete  dotage.  One  can't  humour  all  his  whims, 
really.  But  we  show  him  all  due  respect.  Only  ask  Ev- 
lampia Martinovna." 

Evlampia  did  not  stir;  her  habitual  scornful  smile  flick- 
ered about  her  lips,  and  her  large  eyes  watched  us  with  no 
friendly  expression. 

"  But  why,  Vladimir  Vassilievitch,  have  you  sold  Martin 
Petrovitch's  mare?"  (I  was  particularly  impressed  by  that 
mare  being  in  the  possession  of  a  peasant.) 

"  His  mare,  why  did  we  sell  it?  Why,  Lord  have  mercy 
on  us — what  use  was  she?  She  was  simply  eating  her  head 
off.  But  with  the  peasant  she  can  work  at  the  plough  any- 
way. As  for  Martin  Petrovitch,  if  he  takes  a  fancy  to  drive 
out  anywhere,  he's  only  to  ask  us.  We  wouldn't  refuse  him 
a  conveyance.    On  a  holiday,  we  should  be  pleased." 

"  Vladimir    Vassilievitch,"    said    Evlampia    huskily,    as 


404      THE  BOOK:  OF  THl^:  SHORT  STORV 

though  calling  him  away,  and  she  still  did  not  stir  from  hef 
place.  She  was  twisti-ng  some  stalks  of  ripple-grass  around 
her  fingers  and  snapping  off  their  heads,  slapping  them 
against  each  other. 

"  About  the  page  Maximka  again,"  Sletkin  went  on, 
"  Martin  Petrovitch  complains  because  we've  taken  him  away 
and  apprenticed  him.  But  kindly  consider  the  matter  for 
yourself.  Why,  what  had  he  to  do  waiting  on  Martin  Petro- 
vitch? Kick  up  his  heels;  nothing  more.  And  he  couldn't 
even  wait  on  him  properly,  on  account  of  his  stupidity  and 
his  youth.  Now  we  have  sent  him  away  to  a  harness-maker's. 
He'll  be  turned  into  a  first-rate  handicraftsman — and  make 
a  good  thing  of  it  for  himself — and  pay  us  ransom-money 
too.  And,  living  in  a  small  way  as  we  do,  that's  a  matter  of 
importance.  On  a  little  farm  like  ours,  one  can't  afford  to 
let  anything  slip." 

"  And  this  is  the  man  Martin  Petrovitch  called  a  '  poor 
stick,'  "  I  thought.  "  But  who  reads  to  Martin  Petrovitch 
now?"  I  asked. 

"Why,  what  is  there  to  read?  He  had  one  book — but, 
luckily,  that's  been  mislaid  somewhere.  .  .  .  And  what  use 
is  reading  at  his  age?" 

"  And  who  shaves  him  ?  "  I  asked  again. 

Sletkin  gave  an  approving  laugh,  as  though  in  response 
to  an  amusing  joke.  "  Why,  nobody.  At  first  he  used  to 
singe  his  beard  in  the  candle — but  now  he  lets  it  be  alto- 
gether.   And  it's  lovely  !  " 

"  Vladimir  Vassilievitch  !  "  Evlampia  repeated  insistently: 
"  Vladimir  Vassilievitch  !  " 

Sletkin  made  her  a  sign  with  his  hand. 
"  Martin  Petrovitch  is  clothed  and  cared  for,  and  eats 
what  we  do.  What  more  does  he  want?  He  declared  him- 
self that  he  wanted  nothing  more  in  this  world  but  to  think 
of  his  soul.  U  only  he  would  reaHse  that  everything  now, 
however  you  look  at  it,  is  ours.  He  says  too  that  we  don't 
pay  him  his  allowance.  But  we've  not  always  got  money 
ourselves;  and  what  does  he  want  with  it,  when  he  has  every- 
thing provided  him?  And  we  treat  him  as  one  of  the  family 
too.  I'm  telling  you  the  truth.  The  rooms,  for  instance, 
which  he  occupies — how  we  need  them !  there's  simply  not 
room  to  turn  round  without  them ;  but  we  don't  say  a  word 


A   LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES  405 

— we  put  up  with  it.  We  even  think  how  to  provide  amuse- 
ment for  him.  There,  on  St.  Peter's  Day,  I  bought  him  some 
excellent  hooks  in  the  town — real  English  ones,  expensive 
hooks,  to  catch  fish.  There  are  lots  of  carp  in  our  pond. 
Let  him  sit  and  fish;  in  an  hour  or  two,  there'd  be  a  nice 
little  fish  soup  provided.  The  most  suitable  occupation  for 
old  men." 

"  Vladimir  Vassilievitch  !  "  Evlampia  called  for  the  third 
time  in  an  incisive  tone,  and  she  flung  far  away  from  her  the 
grass  she  had  been  twisting  in  her  fingers,  "  I  am  going !  " 
Her  eyes  met  mine.  "  I  am  going,  Vladimir  Vassilievitch  !  " 
she  repeated,  and  vanished  behind  a  bush. 

"  I'm  coming,  Evlampia  Martinovna,  directly ! "  shouted 
Sletkin.  "  Martin  Petrovitch  himself  agrees  with  us  now," 
he  went  on,  turning  again  to  me.  "  At  first  he  was  offended, 
certainly,  and  even  grumbled,  until,  you  know,  he  realised; 
he  was,  you  remember,  a  hot-tempered,  violent  man — more's 
the  pity !  but  there,  he's  grown  quite  meek  now.  Because  he 
sees  his  own  interest.  Your  mamma — mercy  on  us  !  how  she 
pitched  into  me !  •  •  .•  To  be  sure :  she's  a  lady  that  sets  as 
much  store  by  her  own  authority  as  Martin  Petrovitch  used 
to  do.  But  you  come  in  and  see  for  yourself.  And  you 
might  put  in  a  word  when  there's  an  opportunity.  I  feel 
Natalia  Nikolaevna's  bounty  to  me  deeply.  But  we've  got 
to  live  too." 

"  And  how  was  it  Zhitkov  was  refused  ?  "  I  asked. 

"Fedulitch?  That  dolt?"  Sletkin  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
"  Why,  upon  my  word,  what  use  could  he  have  been  ?  His 
whole  life  spent  among  soldiers — and  now  he  has  a  fancy  to 
take  up  farming.  He  can  keep  the  peasants  up  to  the  mark, 
says  he,  because  he's  been  used  to  knocking  men  about.  He 
can  do  nothing ;  even  knocking  men  about  wants  some  sense. 
Evlampia  Martinovna  refused  him  herself.  He  was  a  quite 
unsuitable  person.  All  our  farming  would  have  gone  to  ruin 
with  him !  " 

"  Coo — y  !  "  sounded  Evlampia's  musical  voice. 

"  Coming !  coming !  "  Sletkin  called  back.  He  held  out 
his  hand  to  me.    Though  unwillingly,  I  took  it. 

"  I  beg  to  take  leave,  Dmitri  Semyonovitch,"  said  Sletkin, 
showing  all  his  white  teeth.  "  Shoot  wild  snipe  as  much  as 
you  like.    It's  wild  game,  belonging  to  no  one.     But  if  you 


4o6      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

come  across  a  hare — you  spare  it;  that  game  is  ours.  Oh, 
and  something  else !  won't  you  be  having  pups  from  your 
bitch  ?    I  should  be  obliged  for  one  !  " 

"  Coo — y  !  "  Evlampia's  voice  rang  out  again. 

"  Coo — y  !  "  Sletkin  responded,  and  rushed  into  the  bushes. 


XIX 

I  remember,  when  I  was  left  alone,  I  was  absorbed  in 
wondering  how  it  was  Harlov  had  not  pounded  Sletkin  "  into 
a  jelly  ",  as  he  said,  and  how  it  was  Sletkin  had  not  been 
afraid  of  such  a  fate.  It  was  clear  Martin  Petrovitch  really 
had  grown  "  meek  ",  I  thought,  and  I  had  a  still  stronger 
desire  to  make  my  way  into  Eskovo,  and  get  at  least  a  glance 
at  that  colossus,  whom  I  could  never  picture  to  myself  sub- 
dued and  tractable.  I  had  reached  the  edge  of  the  copse, 
when  suddenly  a  big  snipe,  with  a  great  rush  of  wings,  darted 
up  at  my  very  feet,  and  flew  off  into  the  depths  of  the  wood. 
I  took  aim;  my  gun  missed  fire.  I  was  greatly  annoyed;  it 
had  been  such  a  fine  bird,  and  I  made  up  my  mind  to  try  if  I 
couldn't  make  it  rise  a  second  time.  I  set  off  in  the  direction 
of  its  flight,  and  going  some  two  hundred  paces  off  into  the 
wood  I  caught  sight — in  a  little  glade,  under  an  overhanging 
birch-tree — not  of  the  snipe,  but  of  the  same  Sletkin  once 
more.  He  was  lying  on  his  back,  with  both  hands  under  his 
head,  and  with  a  smile  of  contentment  gazing  upward  at  the 
sky,  swinging  his  left  leg,  which  was  crossed  over  his  right 
knee.  He  did  not  notice  my  approach.  A  few  paces  from 
him,  Evlampia  was  walking  slowly  up  and  down  the  little 
glade,  with  downcast  eyes.  It  seemed  as  though  she  were 
looking  for  something  in  the  grass — mushrooms  or  some- 
thing ;  now  and  then  she  stooped  and  stretched  out  her  hand. 
She  was  singing  in  a  low  voice.  I  stopped  at  once,  and  fell 
to  listening.  At  first  I  could  not  make  out  what  it  was  she 
was  singing,  but  afterward  I  recognised  clearly  the  follow- 
ing well-known  lines  of  the  old  ballad : 

**  Hither,  hither,  threatening  storm-cloud, 
Slay  for  me  the  father-in-law, 
Strike  for  me  the  mother-in-law, 
The  young  wife  I  will  kill  myself!'* 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES  407 

Evlampia  sang  louder  and  louder;  the  last  words  she  deliv- 
ered with  peculiar  epergy.  Sletkin  still  lay  on  his  back  and 
laughed  to  himself,  while  she  seemed  all  the  time  to  be  mov- 
ing round  and  round  him. 

"  Oh,  indeed  !  "  he  commented  at  last.  "  The  things  that 
come  into  some  people's  heads  !  " 

"  What  ?  "  queried  Evlampia. 

Sletkin  raised  his  head  a  little.  "  What  ?  Why,  what 
words  wer€  those  you  were  uttering  ?  " 

"  Why,  you  know,  Volodya,  one  can't  leave  the  words  out 
of  a  song,"  answered  Evlampia,  and  she  turned  and  saw  me. 
We  both  cried  out  aloud  at  once,  and  both  rushed  away  in 
opposite  directions. 

I  made  my  way  hurriedly  out  of  the  copse,  and  crossing 
a  narrow  clearing,  found  myself  facing  Harlov's  garden. 


XX 

I  had  no  time,  nor  would  it  have  been  of  any  use,  to 
deliberate  over  what  I  had  seen.  Only  an  expression  kept 
recurring  to  my  mind,  "  love-spell  ",  which  I  had  lately  heard, 
and  over  the  signification  of  which  I  had  pondered  a  good 
deal.  I  walked  alongside  the  garden  fence,  and  in  a  few 
moments,  behind  the  silver  poplars  (they  had  not  yet  lost  a 
single  leaf,  and  the  foliage  was  luxuriantly  thick  and  bril- 
liantly glistening),  I  saw  the  yard  and  two  little  lodges  of 
Martin  Petrovitch's  homestead.  The  whole  place  struck  me 
as  having  been  tidied  up  and  pulled  into  shape.  On  every 
side  one  could  perceive  traces  of  unflagging  and  severe  super- 
vision. Anna  Martinovna  came  out  on  to  the  steps,  and 
screwing  up  her  blue-gray  eyes,  gazed  for  a  long  while  in 
the  direction  of  the  copse. 

"Have  you  seen  the  master?"  she  asked  a  peasant,  who 
was  walking  across  the  yard. 

"Vladimir  Vassilievitch? "  responded  the  latter,  taking 
his  cap  off.    "  He  went  into  the  copse,  surely." 

"I  know,  he  went  to  the  copse.  Hasn't  he  come  back? 
Haven't  you  seen  him?" 

"I've  not  seen  him  .  .  .  nay." 

The  peasant  continued  standing  bareheaded  before  Anna 
Martinovna. 


4oS      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

"  Well,  you  can  go,"  she  said.  "  Or  no — wait  a  bit — 
where's  Martin  Petrovitch  ?     Do  you  know  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Martin  Petrovitch,"  answered  the  peasant,  in  a  sing- 
song voice,  alternately  lifting  his  right  and  then  his  left  hand, 
as  though  pointing  away  somewhere,  "  is  sitting  yonder,  at 
the  pond,  with  a  fishing-rod.  He's  sitting  in  the  reeds,  with 
a  rod.    Catching  fish,  maybe,  God  knows." 

"  Very  well  .  .  .  you  can  go,"  repeated  Anna  Martin- 
ovna ;  "  and  put  away  that  wheel,  it's  lying  about." 

The  peasant  ran  to  carry  out  her  command,  while  she 
remained  standing  a  few  minutes  longer  on  the  steps,  still 
gazing  in  the  direction  of  the  copse.  Then  she  clenched 
one  fist  menacingly,  and  went  slowly  back  into  the  house. 
"  Axiutka  !  "  I  heard  her  imperious  voice  calling  within. 

Anna  Martinovna  looked  angry,  and  tightened  her  lips, 
thin  enough  at  all  times,  with  a  sort  of  special  energy.  She 
was  carelessly  dressed,  and  a  coil  of  loose  hair  had  fallen 
down  on  to  her  shoulder.  But  in  spite  of  the  negligence  of 
her  attire,  and  her  irritable  humour,  she  struck  me,  just  as 
before,  as  attractive,  and  I  should  have  been  delighted  to  kiss 
the  narrow  hand  which  looked  malignant  too,  as  she  twice 
irritably  pushed  back  the  loose  tress. 

XXI 

"  Can  Martin  Petrovitch  have  really  taken  to  fishing  ?  "  I 
asked  myself,  as  I  turned  towards  the  pond,  which  was  on 
one  side  of  the  garden.  I  got  on  to  the  dam,  looked  in  all 
directions.  .  .  .  Martin  Petrovitch  was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 
I  bent  my  steps  along  one  of  the  banks  of  the  pond,  and  at 
last,  at  the  very  top  of  it,  in  a  little  creek,  in  the  midst  of 
flat  broken-down  stalks  of  reddish  reed,  I  caught  sight  of  a 
huge  grayish  mass.  ...  I  looked  intently:  it  was  Harlov. 
Bareheaded,  unkempt,  in  a  cotton  smock  torn  at  the  seams, 
with  his  legs  crossed  under  him,  he  was  sitting  motionless  on 
the  bare  earth.  So  motionless  was  he  that  a  sandpiper,  at 
my  approach,  darted  up  from  the  dry  mud  a  couple  of  paces 
from  him,  and  flew  with  a  flash  of  its  little  wings  and  a 
whistle  over  the  surface  of  the  water,  showing  that  no  one 
had  moved  to  frighten  him  for  a  long  while.  Harlov's  whole 
appearance  was  so  extraordinary  that  my  dog  stopped  short 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES  4^9 

directly  it  saw  him,  lifted  its  tail,  and  growled.  He  turned 
his  head  a  very  little,  and  fixed  his  wild-looking  eyes  on  me 
and  my  dog.  He  was  greatly  changed  by  his  beard,  though 
it  was  short,  but  thick  and  curly,  in  white  tufts,  like  As- 
trachan  fur.  In  his  right  hand  lay  the  end  of  a  rod,  while 
the  other  end  hovered  feebly  over  the  water.  I  felt  an  invol- 
untary pang  at  my  heart.  I  plucked  up  my  spirits,  however, 
went  up  to  him,  and  wished  him  good  morning.  He  slowly 
blinked  as  "though  just  awake. 

"  What  are  you  doing,  Martin  Petrovitch,"  I  began ; 
"catching  fish  here?" 

"  Yes  .  .  .  fish,"  he  answered  huskily,  and  pulled  up  the 
rod,  on  which  there  fluttered  a  piece  of  line,  a  fathom  length, 
with  no  hook  on  it. 

"  Your  tackle  is  broken  off,"  I  observed,  and  noticed  the 
same  moment  that  there  was  no  sign  of  bait-tin  nor  worms 
near  Martin  Petrovitch.  .  .  .  And  what  sort  of  fishing  could 
there  be  in  September? 

"  Broken  off?"  he  said,  and  he  passed  his  hand  over  his 
face.    "  But  it's  all  the  same !  " 

He  dropped  the  rod  in  again. 

"  Natalia  Nikolaevna's  son?  "  he  asked  me,  after  the  lapse 
of  two  minutes,  during  which  I  had  been  gazing  at  him  with 
secret  bewilderment.  Though  he  had  grown  terribly  thinner, 
still  he  seemed  a  giant.  But  what  rags  he  was  dressed  in, 
and  how  utterly  he  had  gone  to  pieces  altogether ! 

"  Yes,"  I  answered,  "  I'm  the  son  of  Natalia  Niko- 
laevna  B." 

"  Is  she  well  ?" 

"  My  mother  is  quite  well.  She  was  very  much  hurt  at 
your  refusal,"  I  added ;  "  she  did  not  at  all  expect  you  would 
not  wish  to  come  and  see  her." 

Martin  Petrovitch's  head  sank  on  his  breast.  "  Have  you 
been  there?"  he  asked,  with  a  motion  of  his  head. 

"  Where  ?  " 

"  There,  at  the  house.  Haven't  you?  Go  !  What  is  there 
for  you  to  do  here  ?  Go  !  It's  useless  talking  to  me.  I  don't 
like  it." 

He  was  silent  for  a  while. 

"  You'd  like  to  be  always  idling  about  with  a  gun !  In 
my  young  days  I  used  to  be  inclined  the  same  way  too. 
27 


41<i  THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

Only  my  father  was  strict  and  made  me  respect  him  too. 
Mind  you,  very  different  from  fathers  nowadays.  My  father 
flogged  me  with  a  horsewhip,  and  that  was  the  end  of  it ! 
I'd  to  give  up  idling  about !  And  so  I  respected  him.  .  .  . 
Oo!  .  .  .  Yes!  .  .  ." 

Harlov  paused  again. 

"  Don't  you  stop  here,"  he  began  again.  "  You  go  along 
to  the  house.  Things  are  managed  there  now — it's  first-rate. 
Volodka  "...  Here  he  faltered  for  a  second.  *'  Our  Volod- 
ka*s  a  good  hand  at  everything.  He's  a  fine  fellow!  yes, 
indeed,  and  a  fine  scoundrel  too !  " 

I  did  not  know  what  to  say;  Martin  Petrovitch  spoke 
very  tranquilly. 

"  And  you  go  and  see  my  daughters.  Y'ou  remember,  I 
daresay,  I  had  daughters.  They're  managers  too  .  .  .  clever 
ones.  But  I'm  growing  old,  my  lad ;  I'm  on  the  shelf.  Time 
to  repose,  you  know.  .  .  ." 

"  Nice  sort  of  repose ! "  I  thought,  glancing  round. 
"  Martin  Petrovitch !  "  I  uttered  aloud,  "  you  really  must 
come  and  see  us." 

Harlov  looked  at  me.    "  Go  along,  my  lad,  I  tell  you." 

"  Don't  hurt  mamma's  feelings;  come  and  see  us." 

"  Go  away,  my  lad,  go  away,"  persisted  Harlov.  "  What 
do  you  want  to  talk  to  me  for  ?  " 

"  If  you  have  no  carriage,  mamma  will  send  you  hers." 

"  Go  along  !  " 

"  But,  really  and  truly,  Martin  Petrovitch  !  " 

Harlov  looked  down  again,  and  I  fancied  that  his  cheeks, 
dingy  as  though  covered  with  earth,  faintly  flushed. 

*'  Really,  do  come,"  I  went  on.  "  What's  the  use  of  your 
sitting  here?  of  your  making  yourself  miserable?" 

"  Making  myself  miserable?"  he  commented  hesitatingly. 

"  Yes,  to  be  sure — making  yourself  miserable !  "  I  re- 
peated. 

Harlov  said  nothing,  and  seemed  lost  in  musing.  Em- 
boldened by  his  silence,  I  determined  to  be  open,  to  act 
straightforwardly,  bluntly.  (Do  not  forget,  I  was  only  fif- 
teen then.) 

"  Martin  Petrovitch  !  "  I  began,  seating  myself  beside  him. 
"  I  know  everything,  you  see,  positively  everything.  I  know 
how  your  son-in-law  is  treating  you — doubtless  with  the  con- 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES  4" 

sent  of  your  daughters.  And  now  you  are  in  such  a  posi- 
tion .  .  .  But  why  lose  heart  ?  " 

Harlov  still  remained  silent,  and  simply  dropped  in  his 
line ;  while  I — what  a  sensible  fellow,  what  a  sage  I  felt ! 

"  Doubtless,"  I  began  again,  "  you  acted  imprudently  in 
giving  up  everything  to«your  daughters.  It  was  most  gener- 
ous on  your  part,  and  I  am  not  going  to  blame  you.  In  our 
days  it  is  a  quality  only  too  rare.  But  since  your  daughters 
are  so  urtgrateful,  you  ought  to  show  a  contempt — yes,  a 
contempt — for  them  .  .  .  and  not  fret " 

"  Stop !  "  muttered  Harlov  suddenly,  gnashing  his  teeth, 
and  his  eyes,  staring  at  the  pond,  glittered  wrathfully  .  .  . 
"  Go  away  !  " 

"  But,  Martin  Petrovitch " 

"  Go  away,  I  tell  you  .  .  .  or  I'll  kill  you !  " 

I  had  come  quite  close  to  him;  but  at  the  last  words  I 
instinctively  jumped  up.  "  What  did  you  say,  Martin  Petro- 
vitch ?  " 

"  ril  ki41  you,  I  tell  you ;  go  away  !  "  With  a  wild  moan,  a 
roar,  th<^  words  broke  from  Harlov's  breast,  but  he  did  not 
turn  h'-s  head,  and  still  stared  wrathfully  straight  in  front 
of  h>.]y,.  "  I'll  take  you  and  filing  you  and  your  fool's  coun- 
sel into  the  water.  You  shall  learn  to  pester  the  old,  little 
rr'Asop !  " 

"  He's  gone  mad !  "  flashed  through  my  mind. 

I  looked  at  him  more  attentively,  and  was  completely 
>*etrified ;  Martin  Petrovitch  was  weeping !  Tear  after  tear 
'oiled  from  his  eyelashes  down  his  cheeks  .  .  .  while  his 
/ace  had  assumed  an  expression  utterly  savage. 

"  Go  away !  "  he  roared  once  more,  "  or  I'll  kill  you,  by 
God !  for  an  example  to  others  !  " 

He  was  shaking  all  over  from  side  to  side,  and  showing 
his  teeth  like  a  wild  boar.  I  snatched  up  my  gun  and  took 
to  my  heels.  My  dog  flew  after  me,  barking.  He,  too,  was 
frightened. 

When  I  got  home,  I  naturally  did  not,  by  so  much  as  a 
word,  to  my  mother,  hint  at  what  I  had  seen;  but  coming 
across  Souvenir,  I  told  him — the  devil  knows  why — all  about 
it.  That  loathsome  person  was  so  delighted  at  my  story, 
shrieking  with  laughter,  and  even  dancing  with  pleasure,  that 
I  could  hardly  forbear  striking  him. 


412      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

"  Ah !  I  should  like,"  he  kept  repeating  breathless  with 
laughter,  "  to  see  that  fiend,  the  Swede,  Harlov,  crawling 
into  the  mud  and  sitting  in  it.  .  .  ." 

"  Go  over  to  the  pond  if  you're  so  curious." 

"Yes;  but  how  if  he  kills  me?" 

I  felt  horribly  sick  at  Souvenir,  and  regretted  my  ill- 
timed  confidence.  .  .  .  Zhitkov,  to  whom  he  repeated  my  tale, 
looked  at  the  matter  somewhat  differently. 

"  We  shall  have  to  call  in  the  police,"  he  concluded,  "  or, 
maybe,  we  may  have  to  send  for  a  battalion  of  military." 

His  forebodings  with  regard  to  the  military  battalion 
did  not  come  true;  but  something  extraordinary  really  did 
happen. 

XXII 

In  the  middle  of  October,  three  weeks  after  my  interview 
with  Martin  Petrovitch,  I  was  standing  at  the  window  of 
my  own  room  in  the  second  story  of  our  house,  and  thinking 
of  nothing  at  all,  I  looked  disconsolately  into  the  yard  and 
the  road  that  lay  beyond  it.  The  weather  had  been  disgust- 
ing for  the  last  five  days.  Shooting  was  not  even  to  be 
thought  of.  All  things  living  had  hidden  themselves;  even 
the  sparrows  made  no  sound,  and  the  rooks  had  long  ago  dis- 
appeared from  sight.  The  wind  howled  drearily,  then  whis- 
tled spasmodically.  The  low-hanging  sky,  unbroken  by  one 
streak  of  light,  had  changed  from  an  unpleasant  whitish  to 
a  leaden  and  still  more  sinister  hue ;  and  the  rain,  which  had 
been  pouring  and  pouring,  mercilessly  and  unceasingly,  had 
suddenly  become  still  more  violent  and  more  driving,  and 
streamed  with  a  rushing  sound  over  the  panes.  The  trees 
had  been  stripped  utterly  bare,  and  turned  a  sort  of  gray:  It 
seemed  they  had  nothing  left  to  plunder ;  yet  the  wind  would 
not  be  denied,  but  set  to  harassing  them  once  more.  Puddles, 
clogged  with  dead  leaves,  stood  everywhere.  Big  bubbles, 
continually  bursting  and  rising  up  again,  leaped  and  glided 
over  them.  Along  the  roads  the  mud  lay  thick  and  im- 
passable. The  cold  pierced  its  way  indoors  through  one's 
clothes  to  the  very  bones.  An  involuntary  shiver  passed 
over  the  body,  and  how  sick  one  felt  at  heart !  Sick,  pre- 
cisely, not  sad.  It  seemed  there  would  never  again  in  the 
world  be  sunshine,  nor  brightness,  nor  colour,  but  this  rain 


A  LEAR  OF  THB;  STEPPES  413 

and  mire  and  gray  damp,  and  raw  fog  would  last  forever, 
and  forever  would  the  wind  whine  and  moan !  Well,  I  was 
standing  moodily  at  my  window,  and  I  remember  a  sudden 
darkness  came  on — a  bluish  darkness — though  the  clock  only 
pointed  to  twelve.  Suddenly  I  fancied  I  saw  a  bear  dash 
across  our  yard  from  the  gates  to  the  steps.  Not  on  all  fours, 
certainly,  but  as  he  is  depicted  when  he  gets  up  on  his  hind 
paws.  I  -could  not  believe  my  eyes.  If  it  were  not  a  bear  I 
had  seen,  it  was,  anyway,  something  enormous,  black,  shaggy. 
...  I  was  still  lost  in  wonder  as  to  what  it  could  be,  when 
suddenly  I  heard  below  a  furious  knocking.  It  seemed  some- 
thing utterly  unlooked  for,  something  terrible  was  stumbling 
headlong  into  our  house.  Then  began  a  commotion,  a  hurry- 
ing to  and  fro.  .  .  . 

I  quickly  went  down  the  stairs,  ran  into  the  dining- 
room.  .  .  . 

At  the  drawing-room  door  facing  me  stood  my  mother, 
as  though  rooted  to  the  spot.  Behind  her  peered  several 
scared  female  faces.  The  butler,  two  footmen,  and  a  page, 
with  his  mouth  wide  open  with  astonishment,  were  packed 
together  in  the  doorway  of  the  hall.  In  the  middle  of  the 
dining-room,  covered  with  mire,  dishevelled,  tattered,  and 
soaking  wet — so  wet  that  steam  rose  all  round  and  water  was 
running  in  little  streams  over  the  floor — knelt,  shaking  pon- 
derously, as  it  were,  at  the  last  gasp  .  .  .  the  very  monster 
I  had  seen  dashing  across  the  yard  !  And  who  was  this  mon- 
ster? Harlov !  I  came  up  on  one  side,  and  saw,  not  his  face, 
but  his  head,  which  he  was  clutching,  with  both  hands  in  the 
hair  that  blinded  him  with  filth.  He  was  breathing  heavily, 
brokenly ;  something  positively  rattled  in  his  throat — and  in 
all  the  bespattered  dark  mass,  the  only  thing  that  could  be 
clearly  distinguished  was  the  tiny  whites  of  the  eyes,  stray- 
ing wildly  about.  He  was  awful !  The  dignitary  came  into 
my  mind  whom  he  had  once  crushed  for  comparing  him  to  a 
mastodon.  Truly,  so  might  have  looked  some  antediluvian 
creature  that  had  just  escaped  another  more  powerful  mon- 
ster, attacking  it  in  the  eternal  slime  of  the  primeval  swamps. 

"  Martin  Petrovitch !  "  my  mother  cried  at  last,  and  she 
clasped  her  hands.  "  Is  that  you  ?  Good  God !  Merciful 
heavens !  " 

"  I  ...  I  ..."  we  heard  a  broken  voice,  which  seemed 


414     THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

with  effort  and  painfully  to  dwell  on  each  sound.  "  Alas ! 
It  is  I !  " 

"  But  what  has  happened  to  you?    Mercy  upon  U6  !  " 

"  Natalia  Nikolaev  ...  na  ...  I  have  .  .  .  run  straight 
...  to  you  .  .  .  from  home  ...  on  foot  .  .  ." 

"  Through  such  mud !  But  you  don't  look  like  a  man. 
Get  up ;  sit  down,  anyway.  .  .  .  And  you,"  she  turned  to  the 
maidservants,  "  run  quick  for  cloths.  And  haven't  you  some 
dry  clothes  ?  "  she  asked  the  butler. 

The  butler  gesticulated  as  though  to  say:  Is  it  Hkely  for 
such  a  size  ?  .  .  .  "  But  we  could  get  a  coverlet,"  he  replied, 
"  or,  there's  a  new  horse-rug." 

"  But  get  up,  get  up,  Martin  Petrovitch,  sit  down,"  re- 
peated my  mother. 

"  They've  turned  me  out,  madam,"  Harlov  moaned  sud- 
denly, and  he  flung  his  head  back  and  stretched  his  hands  out 
before  him.  "  They've  turned  me  out,  Natalia  Nikolaevna ! 
My  own  daughters,  out  of  my  own  home  .  .  ." 

My  mother  sighed  and  groaned. 

"  What  are  you  saying?  Turned  you  out !  What  wicked- 
ness !  what  wickedness !  [She  crossed  herself.]  But  do 
get  up,  Martin  Petrovitch,  I  beg  you !  " 

Two  maidservants  came  in  with  cloths  and  stood  still 
before  Harlov.  It  was  clear  they  did  not  know  how  to  attack 
this  mountain  of  filth.  "  They  have  turned  me  out,  madam, 
they  have  turned  me  out !  "  Harlov  kept  repeating  meanwhile. 
The  butler  returned  with  a  large  woollen  coverlet,  and  he,  too, 
stood  still  in  perplexity.  Souvenir's  little  head  was  thrust 
in  at  a  door  and  vanished  again. 

"  Martin  Petrovitch  !  Get  up !  Sit  down !  and  tell  me 
everything  properly,"  my  mother  commanded  in  a  tone  of 
determination. 

Harlov  rose.  .  .  .  The  butler  tried  to  assist  him  but  only 
dirtied  his  hand,  and,  shaking  his  fingers,  retreated  to  the 
door.  Staggering  and  faltering,  Harlov  got  to  a  chair  and 
sat  down.  The  maids  again  approached  him  with  their 
cloths,  but  he  waved  them  off  with  his  hand,  and  refused  the 
coverlet.  My  mother  did  not  herself,  indeed,  insist ;  to  dry 
Harlov  was  obviously  out  of  the  question ;  they  contented 
themselves  with  hastily  wiping  up  his  traces  on  the  floor. 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES  415 


XXIII 


"  How  have  they  turned  you  out  ?  "  my  mother  asked,  as 
soon  as  he  had  a  little  time  to  recover  himself. 

*'  Madam  !  Natalia  Nikolaevna  !  "  he  began,  in  a  strained 
voice — and  again  I  was  struck  by  the  uneasy  straying  of  his 
eyes :  "  I  >will  tell  you  the  truth ;  I  am  myself  most  of  all  to 
blame." 

"  Ay,  to  be  sure ;  you  would  not  listen  to  me  at  the  time," 
assented  my  mother,  sinking  into  an  arm-chair  and  slightly 
moving  a  scented  handkerchief  before  her  nose;  very  strong 
was  the  smell  that  came  from  Harlov  .  .  .  the  odour  in  a 
forest  bog  is  not  so  strong. 

"  Alas !  that's  not  where  I  erred,  madam,  but  through 
pride.  Pride  has  been  my  ruin,  as  it  ruined  the  Czar  Navu- 
hodonosor.  I  fancied  God  had  given  me'  my  full  share  of 
sense,  and  if  I  resolved  on  anything,  it  followed  it  was  right; 
so  .  .  .  and  then  the  fear  of  death  came  ...  I  was  utterly 
confounded  !  *  I'll  show,'  said  I,  *  to  the  last,  my  power  and 
my  strength  !  I'll  bestow  all  on  them — and  they  must  feel 
it  all  their  lives.'  .  .  .  [Harlov  suddenly  was  shaking  all 
over.  .  .  .]  Like  a  mangy  dog  they  have  driven  me  out  of 
the  house  !     This  is  their  gratitude  !  " 

"  In  what  way "  my  mother  was  beginning. 

"  They  took  my  page,  Maximka,  from  me,"  Harlov  inter- 
rupted her  [his  eyes  were  still  wandering,  he  held  both  hands 
— the  fingers  interlaced — under  his  chin],  "my  carriage  they 
took  away,  my  monthly  allowance  they  cut  down,  did  not  pay 
me  the  sum  specified,  cut  me  short  all  round,  in  fact;  still  I 
said  nothing,  bore  it  all !  And  I  bore  it  by  reason  .  .  .  alas  ! 
of  my  pride  again.  That  my  cruel  enemies  might  not  say: 
'  See,  the  old  fool's  sorry  for  it  now ' ;  and  you  too,  do  you 
remember,  madam,  had  warned  me ;  *  mind  you,  it's  all  to  no 
purpose,'  you  said ;  and  so  I  bore  it.  .  .  .  Only,  to-day  I  came 
into  my  room,  and  it  was  occupied  already,  and  my  bed 
they'd  thrown  out  into  the  lumber-room !  '  You  can  sleep 
there;  we  put  up  with  you  there  even  only  out  of  charity; 
we've  need  of  your  room  for  the  household.'  And  this  was 
said  to  me  by  whom  ?  Volodka  Sletkin !  the  vile  hound,  the 
base  cur !  " 


41 6      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

Harlov's  voice  broke. 

"  But  your  daughters  ?  What  did  they  do  ?  "  asked  my 
mother. 

"  But  I  bore  it  all,"  Harlov  went  on  again ;  "  bitterness, 
bitterness  was  in  my  heart,  let  me  tell  you,  and  shame.  .  .  . 
I  could  not  bear  to  look  upon  the  light  of  day !  That  was 
why  I  was  unwilling  to  come  and  see  you,  ma'am,  from  this 
same  feeling,  from  shame  for  my  disgrace !  I  have  tried 
everything,  my  good  friend ;  kindness,  affection,  and  threats, 
and  I  reasoned  with  them,  and  more  besides !  I  bowed  down 
before  them  .  .  .  like  this.  [Harlov  showed  how  he  had 
bowed  down.]  And  all  in  vain.  And  all  of  it  I  bore !  At 
the  beginning,  at  first,  I'd  very  different  thoughts ;  I'll  up,  I 
thought,  and  kill  them.  I'll  crush  them  all,  so  that  not  a 
trace  remains  of  them !  .  .  .  I'll  let  them  know !  Well,  but 
after,  I  submitted!  It's  a  cross,  I  thought,  laid  upon  me; 
it's  to  bid  me  make  ready  for  death.  And  all  at  once,  to-day, 
driven  out,  like  a  cur  !  And  by  whom  ?  Volodka  !  And  you 
asked  about  my  daughters;  they've  no  will  of  their  own  at 
all.    They're  Volodka's  slaves  !    Yes  !  " 

My  mother  wondered.  "  In  Anna's  case  I  can  understand 
that ;  she's  a  wife.  .  .  .  But  how  comes  it  your  second  .  .  ." 

"  Evlampia  ?  She's  worse  than  Anna  !  She's  altogether 
given  herself  up  into  Volodka's  hands.  That's  the  reason 
she  refused  your  soldier,  too.  At  his,  at  Volodka's  bidding. 
Anna,  to  be  sure,  ought  to  resent  it,  and  she  can't  bear  her 
sister,  but  she  submits !  He's  bewitched  them,  the  cursed 
scoundrel !  Though  she,  Anna,  I  daresay,  is  pleased  to  think 
that  Evlampia,  who  was  always  so  proud — and  now  see  what 
she's  come  to !  .  .  .  O  .  .  .  alas !  .  .  .  alas !    God,  my  God !  " 

My  mother  looked  uneasily  towards  me.  I  moved  a  little 
away  as  a  precautionary  measure,  for  fear  I  should  be  sent 
away  altogether.  .  .  . 

"  I  am  very  sorry  indeed,  Martin  Petrovitch,"  she  began, 
•*  that  my  former  protege  has  caused  you  so  much  sorrow, 
and  has  turned  out  so  badly.  But  I,  too,  was  mistaken  in 
him.  .  .  .  Who  could  have  expected  this  of  him?" 

"  Madam,"  Harlov  moaned  out,  and  he  struck  himself  a 
blow  on  the  chest,  "  I  cannot  bear  the  ingratitude  of  my 
daughters  !  I  cannot,  madam  !  You  know  I  gave  them  every- 
thing,  everything !     And  besides,   my  conscience  has  been 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES  41? 

tormenting  me.  Many  things  .  .  .  alas !  many  things  I  have 
thought  over,  sitting  by  the  pond,  fishing.  *  If  you'd  only 
done  good  to  any  one  in  your  life  ! '  was  what  I  pondered 
upon,  '  succoured  the  poor,  set  the  peasants  free,  or  some- 
thing, to  atone  for  having  wrung  their  lives  out  of  them. 
You  must  answer  for  them  before  God !  Now  their  tears 
are  revenged.'  And  what  sort  of  life  have  they  now?  It 
was  a  deep  pit  even  in  my  time — why  disguise  my  sins? — 
but  now  there's  no  seeing  the  bottom !  All  these  sins  I  have 
taken  upon  my  soul ;  I  have  sacrificed  my  conscience  for  my 
children,  and  for  this  I'm  laughed  to  scorn !  Kicked  out  of 
the  house,  like  a  cur !  " 

"  Don't  think  about  that,  Martin  Petrovitch,"  observed 
my  mother. 

"  And  when  he  told  me,  your  Volodka,"  Harlov  went  on 
with  fresh  force,  "  when  he  told  me  I  was  not  to  live  in  my 
room  any  more — I  laid  every  plank  in  that  room  with  my 
own  hands — when  he  said  that  to  me — God  only  knows  what 
passed  within  me  !  It  was  all  confusion  in  my  head,  and  like 
a  knife  in  my  heart.  .  .  .  Either  to  cut  his  throat  or  get 
away  out  of  the  house  !  .  .  .  So,  I  have  run  to  you,  my  bene- 
factress, Natalia  Nikolaevna  .  .  .  where  had  I  to  lay  my 
head?  And  then  the  rain,  the  filth  ...  I  fell  down  twenty 
times,  maybe!     And  now  .  .  .in  such  unseemly  .  .  ." 

Harlov  scanned  himself  and  moved  restlessly  in  his  chair, 
as  though  intending  to  get  up. 

"  Say  no  more,  Martin  Petrovitch,"  my  mother  interposed 
hurriedly;  "what  does  that  signify?  That  you've  made  the 
floor  dirty  ?  That's  no  great  matter  !  Come,  I  want  to  make 
you  a  proposition.  Listen !  They  shall  take  you  now  to  a 
special  room,  and  make  you  up  a  clean  bed — you  undress, 
wash,  and  lie  down  and  sleep  a  little.  .  .  ." 

"  Natalia  Nikolaevna  !  There's  no  sleeping  for  me  !  " 
Harlov  responded  drearily.  "  It's  as  though  there  were  ham- 
mers beating  in  my  brain  !  Me  !  like  some  good-for-nothing 
beast!  .  .  ." 

"  Lie  down  and  sleep,"  my  mother  repeated  insistently. 
"  And  then  we'll  give  you  some  tea — yes,  and  we'll  have  a 
talk.  Don't  lose  heart,  old  friend.  If  they've  driven  you  out 
of  your  house,  in  my  house  you  will  always  find  a  home.  .  .  . 
I  have  not  forgotten,  you  know,  that  you  saved  my  life." 


4l8      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

"  Benefactress  !  "  moaned  Harlov,  and  he  covered  his  face 
with  his  hand.    "You  must  save  me  now !  " 

This  appeal  touched  my  mother  almost  to  tears.  "  I  am 
ready  and  eager  to  help  you,  Martin  Petrovitch,  in  everything 
I  am  able.  But  you  must  promise  me  that  you  will  listen 
to  me  in  future  and  dismiss  every  evil  thought  from  you." 

Harlov  took  his  hands  from  his  face.  "  If  need  be,"  he 
said,  "  I  can  forgive  them,  even !  " 

My  mother  nodded  her  head  approvingly.  "  I  am  very 
glad  to  see  you  in  such  a  truly  Christian  frame  of  mind,  Mar- 
tin Petrovitch ;  but  we  will  talk  of  that  later.  Meanwhile, 
you  put  yourself  to  rights,  and,  most  of  all,  sleep. — Take 
Martin  Petrovitch  to  what  was  the  master's  room,  the  green 
room,"  sa,id  my  mother,  addressing  the  butler,  "  and  whatever 
he  asks  for,  let  him  have  it  on  the  spot !  Give  orders  for  his 
clothes  to  be  dried  and  washed,  and  ask  the  housekeeper  for 
what  linen  is  needed.    Do  you  hear?  " 

"  Yes,  madam,"  responded  the  butler. 

"  And  as  soon  as  he's  asleep,  tell  the  tailor  to  take  his 
measure;  and  his  beard  will  have  to  be  shaved.  Not  at  once, 
but  after." 

"  Yes,  madam,"  repeated  the  butler. — "  Martin  Petrovitch, 
kindly  come."  Harlov  got  up,  looked  at  my  mother,  was 
about  to  go  up  to  her,  but  stopped,  swinging  a  bow  from  the 
waist,  crossed  himself  three  times  to  the  image,  and  fol- 
lowed the  steward.  Behind  him,  I,  too,  slipped  out  of  the 
roomi 

XXIV 

The  butler  conducted  Harlov  to  the  green  room,  and  at 
once  ran  off  for  the  ward-room  maid,  as  it  turned  out  there 
were  no  sheets  on  the  bed.  Souvenir,  who  met  us  in  the  pas- 
sage, and  popped  into  the  green  room  with  us,  promptly  pro- 
ceeded to  dance,  grinning  and  chuckling,  round  Harlov,  who 
stood,  his  arms  held  a  little  away  from  him,  and  his  legs  apart, 
in  the  middle  of  the  room,  seeming  lost  in  thought.  The 
water  was  still  dripping  from  him. 

"  The  Swede  !  The  Swede,  Harlus  !  "  piped  Souvenir, 
doubling  up  and  holding  his  sides.  "  Mighty  founder  of  the 
illustrious  race  of  Harlovs,  look  down  on  my  descendant ! 
What  does  he  look  like?    Dost  thou  recognise  him?    Ha,  ha, 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES  4^9 

ha !  Your  excellency,  your  hand,  I  beg ;  why,  have  you  got 
on  black  gloves  ?  " 

I  tried  to  restrain  Souvenir,  to  put  him  to  shame  .  .  . 
but  it  was  too  late  for  that  now. 

"  He  called  me  parasite,  toady !  *  You've  no  roof,'  said 
he,  *  to  call  your  own.'  But  now,  no  doubt  about  it,  he's 
become  as  dependent  as  poor  little  me.  Martin  Petrovitch 
and  Souvenir,  the  poor  toady,  are  equal  now.  He'll  have  to 
live  on  charity  too.  They'll  toss  him  the  stale  and  dirty 
crust,  that  the  dog  has  sniffed  at  and  refused.  .  .  .  And 
they'll  tell  him  to  eat  it,  too.    Ha,  ha,  ha !  " 

Harlov  still  stood  motionless,  his  head  drawn  in,  his  legs 
and  arms  held  a  little  apart. 

"  Martin  Harlov,  a  nobleman  born !  "  Souvenir  went  on 
shrieking.  "  What  airs  he  used  to  give  himself.  '  Just  look 
at  me  !  Don't  come  near,  or  I'll  knock  you  down  ! '  .  .  .  And 
when  he  was  so  clever  as  to  give  away  and  divide  his 
property,  didn't  he  crow  !  *  Gratitude  ! '  he  cackled,  *  grati- 
tude !  '  But  why  were  you  so  mean  to  me  ?  Why  didn't 
you  make  me  a  present  ?  Maybe,  I  should  have  felt  it  more. 
And  you  see  I  was  right  when  I  said  they'd  strip  you  bare, 
and  .  .  ." 

"  Souvenir !  "  I  screamed ;  but  Souvenir  was  in  nowise 
daunted.  Harlov  still  did  not  stir.  It  seemed  as  though  he 
were  only  now  beginning  to  be  aware  how  soaking-wet 
everything  was  that  he  had  on,  and  was  waiting  to  be  helped 
off  with  his  clothes.     But  the  butler  had  not  come  back. 

"  And  a  military  man  too  !  "  Souvenir  began  again.  "  In 
the  year  twelve,  he  saved  his  country;  he  showed  proofs  of 
his  valour.  I  see  how  it  is.  Stripping  the  frozen  marauders 
of  their  breeches  is  work  he's  quite  equal  to,  but  when  the 
hussies  stamp  their  feet  at  him  he's  frightened  out  of  his 
skin." 

"  Souvenir  !  "  I  screamed  a  second  time. 

Harlov  looked  askance  at  Souvenir.  Till  that  instant  he 
seemed  not  to  have  noticed  his  presence,  and  only  my  excla- 
mation aroused  his  attention. 

"  Look  out,  brother,"  he  growled  huskily,  "  don't  dance 
yourself  into  trouble." 

Souvenir  fairly  rolled  about  with  laughter.  "  Ah,  how 
you  frighten  me,  most  honoured  brother.    You're  a  formi- 


420      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

dable  person,  to  be  sure.  You  must  comb  your  hair,  at  any 
rate,  or,  God  forbid,  it'll  get  dry,  and  you'll  never  wash  it 
clean  again ;  you'll  have  to  mow  it  with  a  sickle."  Souvenir 
all  of  a  sudden  got  into  a  fury.  "  And  you  give  yourself  airs 
still.  A  poor  outcast,  and  he  gives  himself  airs.  Where's 
your  home  now?  you'd  better  tell  me  that,  you  were  always 
boasting  of  it.  '  I  have  a  home  of  my  own,'  he  used  to  say, 
but  you're  homeless.  '  My  ancestral  roof,'  he  would  say." 
Souvenir  pounced  on  this  phrase  as  an  inspiration. 

"  Mr.  Bitchkov,"  I  protested,  "  what  are  you  about  ?  you 
forget  yourself." 

But  he  still  persisted  in  chattering,  and  still  danced  and 
pranced  up  and  down  quite  close  to  Harlov.  And  still  the 
butler  and  the  ward-room  maid  did  not  come. 

I  felt  alarmed.  I  began  to  notice  that  Harlov,  who  had, 
during  his  conversation  with  my  mother,  gradually  grown 
quieter,  and  even  towards  the  end  apparently  resigned  him- 
self to  his  fate,  was  beginning  to  get  worked  up  again.  He 
breathed  more  hurriedly,  it  seemed  as  though  his  face  were 
suddenly  swollen  under  his  ears,  his  fingers  twitched,  his 
eyes  again  began  moving  restlessly  in  the  dark  mask  of  his 
grim  face.  .  .  . 

"  Souvenir,  Souvenir ! "  I  cried.  "  Stop  it,  I'll  tell 
mamma." 

But  Souvenir  seemed  possessed  by  frenzy.  *'  Yes,  yes, 
most  honoured  brother,"  he  began  again,  "  here  we  find  our- 
selves, you  and  I,  in  the  most  delicate  position,  while  your 
daughters,  with  your  son-in-law,  Vladimir  Vassilievitch,  are 
having  a  fine  laugh  at  you  under  your  roof.  And  you  should 
at  least  curse  them,  as  you  promised.  Even  that  you're  not 
equal  to.  To  be  sure,  how  could  you  hold  your  own  with 
Vladimir  Vassilievitch?  Why,  you  used  to  call  him  Volodka, 
too.  You  call  him  Volodka.  He  is  Vladimir  Vassilievitch, 
Mr.  Sletkin,  a  landowner,  a  gentleman,  while — what  are  you, 
pray?" 

A  furious  roar  drowned  Souvenir's  words.  .  .  ,  Harlov 
was  aroused.  His  fists  were  clenched  and  lifted,  his  face  was 
purple,  there  was  foam  on  his  drawn  lips,  he  was  shaking  with 
rage.  "Roof,  you  say!"  he  thundered  in  his  iron  voice; 
"  curse,  you  say.  .  .  .  No !  I  will  not  curse  them.  .  .  .  They 
don't  care  for  that  .  .  .  But  the  roof  ...  I  will  tear  the  roof 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES  421 

off  them,  and  they  shall  have  no  roof  over  their  heads,  like 
me.  They  shall  learn  to  know  Martin  Harlov.  My  strength 
is  not  all  gone  yet ;  they  shall  learn  to  laugh  at  me !  .  .  . 
They  shall  have  no  roof  over  their  heads !  " 

I  was  stupefied;  never  in  my  life  had  I  witnessed  such 
boundless  anger.  Not  a  man — a  wild  beast  paced  to  and  fro 
before  me.  I  was  stupefied ;  ...  as  for  Souvenir,  he  had 
hidden  uiider  the  table  in  his  fright. 

"  They  shall  not !  "  Harlov  shouted  for  the  last  time,  and 
almost  knocking  over  the  butler  and  the  ward-room  maid,  he 
rushed  away  out  of  the  house.  ...  He  dashed  headlong 
across  the  yard,  and  vanished  through  the  gates. 


XXV 

My  mother  was  terribly  angry  when  the  butler  came  with 
an  abashed  countenance  to  report  Martin  Petrovitch's  sud- 
den and  unexpected  retreat.  He  did  not  dare  to  conceal  the 
cause  of  this  retreat;  I  was  obliged  to  confirm  his  story. 
"  Then  it  was  all  your  doing !  "  my  mother  cried  at  the  sight 
of  Souvenir,  who  had  run  in  like  a  hare,  and  was  even  ap- 
proaching to  kiss  her  hand :  "  Your  vile  tongue  is  to  blame 
for  it  all !  "  "  Excuse  me,  d'rectly,  d'rectly  .  .  ."  faltered 
Souvenir,  stuttering  and  drawing  back  his  elbows  behind 
him.  "  D'rectly  .  .  .  d'rectly  ...  I  know  your  '  d'rectly,'  " 
my  mother  repeated  reprovingly,  and  she  sent  him  out  of  the 
room.  Then  she  rang  the  bell,  sent  for  Kvitsinsky,  and  gave 
him  orders  to  set  oft  on  the  spot  to  Eskovo,  with  a  carriage, 
to  find  Martin  Petrovitch  at  all  costs,  and  to  bring  him  back. 
"  Do  not  let  me  see  you  without  him,"  she  concluded.  The 
gloomy  Pole  bowed  his  head  without  a  word,  and  went  away. 

I  went  back  to  my  own  room,  sat  down  again  at  the  win- 
dow, and  I  pondered  a  long  while,  I  remember,  on  what  had 
taken  place  before  my  eyes.  I  was  puzzled ;  I  could  not  under- 
stand how  it  was  that  Harlov,  who  had  endured  the  insults  of 
his  own  family  almost  without  a  murmur,  had  lost  all  self- 
control,  and  been  unable  to  put  up  with  the  jeers  and  pin- 
pricks of  such  an  abject  creature  as  Souvenir.  I  did  not 
understand  in  those  days  what  insufferable  bitterness  there 
may  sometimes  be  in  a  foolish  taunt,  even  when  it  comes 
from  lips  one  scorns.  .  .  .  The  hated  name  of  Sletkin,  uttered 


42  2      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

by  Souvenir,  had  been  like  a  spark  thrown  into  powder.    The 
sore  spot  could  not  endure  this  final  prick. 

About  an  hour  passed  by.  Our  coach  drove  into  the  yard ; 
but  our  steward  sat  in  it  alone.  And  my  mother  had  said  to 
him :  "  Don't  let  me  see  you  without  him."  Kvitsinsky  jumped 
hurriedly  out  of  the  carriage,  and  ran  up  the  steps.  His  face 
had  a  perturbed  look — something  very  unusual  with  him.  I 
promptly  rushed  down-stairs,  and  followed  at  his  heels  into 
the  drawing-room.  "  Well  ?  have  you  brought  him  ?  "  asked 
my  rnother. 

"  I  have  not  brought  him,"  answered  Kvitsinsky — "  and  I 
could  not  bring  him." 

"  How's  that?    Have  you  seen  him?" 
.       "Yes." 

"  What  has  happened  to  him?    A  fit?" 

"  No ;  nothing  has  happened." 

"  How  is  it  you  didn't  bring  him?" 

"  He's  pulling  his  house  to  pieces." 

"What?" 

Y  He's  standing  on  the  roof  of  the  new  building,  and  pull- 
ing it  to  pieces.  Forty  boards  or  more,  I  should  guess,  must 
have  come  down  by  now,  and  some  five  of  the  rafters  too. 
["  They  shall  not  have  a  roof  over  their  heads."  Harlov's 
words  came  back  to  me.]  " 

My  mother  stared  at  Kvitsinsky.  "  Alone  .  .  .  he's  stand- 
ing on  the  roof,  and  pulling  the  roof  down  ?  " 

"  Exactly  so.  He  is  walking  about  on  the  flooring  of  the 
garret  in  the  roof,  and  smashing  right  and  left  of  him.  His 
strength,  you  are  aware,  madam,  is  superhuman.  And  the 
roof  too,  one  must  say,  is  a  poor  affair;  half-inch  deal  bat- 
tens, laid  wide  apart,  one-inch  nails." 

My  mother  looked  at  me,  as  though  wishing  to  make  sure 
whether  she  had  heard  aright.  "  Half-inches  wide  apart,"  she 
repeated,  obviously  not  understanding  the  meaning  of  one 
word.     "Well,  what  then?"  she  said  at  last. 

"  I  have  come  for  instructions.  There's  no  doing  any- 
thing without  men  to  help.  The  peasants  there  are  all  limp 
with  fright." 

"And  his  daughters — what  of  them?" 

"  His  daughters  are  doing  nothing.  They're  running  to 
and  fro,  shouting  .  .  .  this  and  that  ...  all  to  no  purpose." 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES  423 

"  And  is  Sletkin  there  ?  " 

"  He's  there  too.  He's  making  more  outcry  than  all  of 
them — but  he  can't  do  anything." 

"  And  Martin  Petrovitch  is  standing  on  the  roof  ?  " 

"  On  the  roof  .  .  .  that  is,  in  the  garret — and  pulling  the 
roof  to  pieces." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  my  mother,  "  half-inches  wide  apart." 

The  position  was  obviously  a  serious  one.  What  steps 
were  to  be  taken  ?  Send  to  the  town  for  the  police  captain  ? 
Get  together  the  peasants  ?  My  mother  was  quite  at  her  wit's 
end.  Zhitkov,  who  had  come  into  dinner,  was  nonplussed 
too.  It  is  true,  he  made  another  reference  to  a  battalion  of 
military ;  he  offered  no  advice,  however,  but  confined  himself 
to  looking  submissive  and  devoted.  Kvitsinsky,  seeing  he 
would  not  get  at  any  instructions,  suggested  to  my  mother — 
with  the  contemptuous  respectfulness  peculiar  to  him — that 
if  she  would  authorise  him  to  take  a  few  of  the  stable-boys, 
gardeners,  and  other  house-serfs,  he  would  make  an  effort  .  .  . 

"  Yes,  yes,"  my  mother  cut  him  short,  "  do  make  an  effort, 
dear  Vikenty  Osipitch  !  Only  make  haste,  please,  and  I  will 
take  all  responsibility  on  myself." 

Kvitsinsky  smiled  coldly.  "  One  thing  let  me  make  clear, 
madam,  beforehand;  it's  impossible  to  reckon  on  any  result, 
seeing  that  Mr.  Harlov's  strength  is  so  great,  and  he  is 
so  desperate  too;  he  feels  himself  to  have  been  very  cruelly 
wronged ! " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  my  mother  assented ;  "  and  it's  all  that  vile 
Souvenir's  fault !  Never  will  I  forgive  him  for  it.  Go  and 
take  the  servants  and  set  off,  Vikenty  Osipitch  !  " 

"  You'd  better  take  plenty  of  cord,  Mr.  Steward,  and  some 
fire-escape  tackle,"  Zhitkov  brought  out  in  his  bass — "  and 
if  there  is  such  a  thing  as  a  net,  it  would  be  as  well  to  take 
that  along  too.     We  once  had  in  our  regiment  .  .  ." 

"  Kindly  refrain  from  instructing  me,  sir,"  Kvitsinsky  cut 
him  short,  with  an  air  of  vexation ;  "  I  know  what  is  needed 
without  your  aid." 

Zhitkov  was  offended,  and  protested  that  as  he  imagined 
he,  too,  was  called  upon  .  .  . 

"  No,  no !  "  interposed  my  mother ;  "  you'd  better  stop 
where  you  are  .  .  .  Let  Vikenty  Osipitch  act  alone  .  ,  , 
Make  haste,  Vikenty  Osipitch  !  " 


4  24      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

Zliitkov  was  still  more  offended,  while  Kvitsinsky  bowed 
and  went  out. 

I  rushed  off  to  the  stable,  hurriedly  saddled  my  horse 
myself,  and  set  off  at  a  gallop  along  the  road  to  Eskovo. 

XXVI 

The  rain  had  ceased,  but  the  wind  was  blowing  with  re- 
doubled force — straight  into  my  face.  Half-way  there,  the 
saddle  almost  slipped  round  under  me;  the  girth  had  go* 
loose.  I  got  off  and  tried  to  tighten  the  straps  with  my 
teeth.  .  .  .  All  at  once  I  heard  some  one  calling  me  by  my 
name.  .  .  .  Souvenir  was  running  towards  me  across  the 
green  fields.  "  What !  "  he  shouted  to  me  from  some  way  off, 
"  was  your  curiosity  too  much  for  you  ?  But  it's  no  use  .  .  . 
I  went  over  there,  straight,  at  Harlov's  heels.  .  .  .  Such  a 
state  of  things  you  never  saw  in  your  life !  " 

"  You  want  to  enjoy  what  you  have  done,"  I  said  indig- 
nantly, and,  jumping  on  my  horse,  I  set  off  again  at  a  gallop. 
But  the  indefatigable  Souvenir  did  not  give  me  up,  and 
chuckled  and  grinned,  even  as  he  ran.  At  last,  Eskovo  was 
reached — there  was  the  dam,  and  there  the  long  hedge  and 
willow-tree  of  the  homestead.  ...  1  rode  up  to  the  gate,  dis- 
mounted, tied  up  my  horse,  and  stood  still  in  amazement. 

Of  one-third  of  the  roof  of  the  newer  house,  of  the  front 
part,  nothing  was  left  but  the  skeleton ;  boards  and  litter  lay 
in  disorderly  heaps  on  the  ground  on  both  sides  of  the  build- 
ing. Even  supposing  the  roof  to  be,  as  Kvitsinsky  had  said, 
a  poor  affair,  even  so,  it  was  something  incredible !  On  the 
floor  of  the  garret,  in  a  whirl  of  dust  and  rubbish,  a  blackish 
gray  mass  was  moving  to  and  fro  with  rapid  ungainly  action, 
at  one  moment  shaking  the  remaining  chimney,  built  of  brick 
(the  other  had  fallen  already),  then  tearing  up  the  boarding 
and  flinging  it  down  below,  then  clutching  at  the  very  rafters. 
It  was  Harlov.  He  struck  me  as  being  exactly  like  a  bear 
at  this  moment  too;  the  head,  and  back,  and  shoulders  were 
a  bear's,  and  he  put  his  feet  down  wide  apart  without  bending 
the  insteps — also  like  a  bear.  The  bitter  wind  was  blowing 
upon  him  from  every  side,  lifting  his  matted  locks.  It  was 
horrible  to  see,  here  and  there,  red  patches  of  bare  flesh 
through  the  rents  in  his  tattered  clothes;  it  was  horrible  to 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES  425 

hear  his  wild  husky  muttering.  There  were  a  lot  of  people 
in  the  yard;  peasant-women,  boys,  and  servant-girls  stood 
close  along  the  hedge.  A  few  peasants  huddled  together  in 
a  separate  group,  a  little  way  off.  The  old  village  priest, 
whom  I  knew,  was  standing,  bareheaded,  on  the  steps  of  the 
other  house,  and  holding  a  brazen  cross  in  both  hands,  from 
time  to  time,  silently  and  hopelessly,  raised  it,  and,  as  it  were, 
showed  it  to  Harlov.  Beside  the  priest  stood  Evlampia  with 
her  back  against  the  wall,  gazing  fixedly  at  her  father.  Anna, 
at  one  moment,  pushed  her  head  out  of  the  little  window, 
then  vanished,  then  hurried  into  the  yard,  then  went  back 
into  the  house.  Sletkin — pale  all  over,  livid — in  an  old  dress- 
ing-gown and  smoking-cap,  with  a  single-barrelled  rifle  in 
his  hands,  kept  running  to  and  fro  with  little  steps.  He  had 
completely  gone  Jewish,  as  it  is  called.  He  was  gasping, 
threatening,  shaking,  pointing  the  gun  at  Harlov,  then  let- 
ting it  drop  back  on  his  shoulder — pointing  it  again,  shriek- 
ing, weeping.  .  .  .  On  seeing  Souvenir  and  me  he  simply 
flew  to  us. 

"  Look,  look,  what  is  going  on  here  !  "  he  wailed — "  look  ! 
He's  gone  out  of  his  mind,  he's  raving  mad  .  .  .  and  see 
what  he's  doing !  Lve  sent  for  the  police  already — but  no 
one  comes !  No  one  comes !  If  I  do  fire  at  him,  the  law 
couldn't  touch  me,  for  every  man  has  a  right  to  defend  his 
own  property  !    And  I  will  fire !  ...  By  God,  I'll  fire !  " 

He  ran  off  towards  the  house. 

"  Martin  Petrovitch,  look  out !  If  you  don't  get  down, 
111  fire !  " 

"  Fire  away !  "  came  a  husky  voice  from  the  roof.  "  Fire 
away !    And  meanwhile  here's  a  little  present  for  you  !  " 

A  long  plank  flew  up,  and,  turning  over  twice  in  the  air, 
came  violently  to  the  earth,  just  at  Sletkin's  feet.  He  posi- 
tively jumped  into  the  air,  while  Harlov  chuckled. 

"  Merciful  Jesus ! "  faltered  some  one  behind  me.  I 
looked  round :  Souvenir.  "  Ah  !  "  I  thought,  "  he's  left  off 
laughing  now  !  " 

Sletkin  clutched  a  peasant,  who  was  standing  near,  by 
the  collar. 

"  Climb   up    now,    climb  up,    climb   up,   all   of   you,   you 
devils,"  he  wailed,  shaking  the  man  with  all  his  force,  "  save 
my  property !  " 
28 


426      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

The  peasant  took  a  couple  of  steps  forward,  threw  his 
head  back,  waved  his  arms,  shouted  "  Hi !  here !  master !  " 
shifted  from  one  foot  to  the  other  uneasily,  and  then  turned 
back, 

"  A  ladder !  bring  a  ladder !  "  Sletkin  addressed  the  other 
peasants. 

"  Where  are  we  to  get  it?  "  was  heard  in  answer. 

"  And  if  we  had  a  ladder,"  one  voice  pronounced  deliber- 
ately, "  who'd  care  to  climb  up  ?  Not  such  fools  !  He'd  wring 
your  neck  for  you — in  a  twinkling  !  " 

"  He'd  kill  one  in  no  time,"  said  one  young  lad  with 
flaxen  hair  and  a  half-idiotic  face. 

"  To  be  sure  he  would,"  the  others  confirmed.  It  struck 
me  that,  even  if  there  had  been  no  obvious  danger,  the  peas- 
ants would  yet  have  been  loath  to  carry  out  their  new  owner's 
orders.  They  almost  approved  of  Harlov,  though  they  were 
amazed  at  him. 

"  Ugh,  you  robbers  !  "  moaned  Sletkin ;  "  you  shall  all 
catch  it  .  .  ." 

But  at  this  moment,  with  a  heavy  rumble,  the  last  chim- 
ney came  crashing  down,  and,  in  the  midst  of  the  cloud  of 
yellow  dust  that  flew  up  instantly,  Harlov — uttering  a  pierc- 
ing shriek  and  lifting  his  bleeding  hands  high  in  the  air — • 
turned  facing  us.     Sletkin  pointed  the  gun  at  him  again. 

Evlampia  pulled  him  back  by  the  elbow. 

"  Don't  interfere !  "  he  snarled  savagely  at  her. 

"  And  you — don't  you  dare  !  "  she  answered ;  and  her  blue 
eyes  flashed  menacingly  under  her  scowling  brows.  "  Fa- 
ther's pulling  his  house  down.     It's  his  own." 

"  You  lie :  it's  ours  !  " 

"  You  say  ours;  but  I  say  it's  his." 

Sletkin  hissed  with  fury;  Evlampia's  eyes  seemed  stab- 
bing him  in  the  face. 

"Ah,  how  d'ye  do,  my  delightful  daughter?"  Harlov 
thundered  from  above.  "  How  d'ye  do,  Evlampia  Martin- 
ovna?  How  are  you  getting  on  with  your  sweetheart?  Are 
your  kisses  sweet,  and  your  fondling?" 

"  Father !  "  rang  out  Evlampia's  musical  voice. 

"Eh,  daughter?"  answered  Harlov;  and  he  came  down 
to  the  very  edge  of  the  wall.  His  face,  as  far  as  I  could 
inake  it  out,  wore  a  strangle  smile,  a  bright,  mirthful — and 


A  LEAfe  OP  THE  STEPPES  4^7 

for  that  very  reason  peculiarly  strange  and  evil — smile.  .  ;  i 
Many  years  later  I  saw  just  the  same  smile  on  the  face  of  a 
man  condemned  to  death. 

"  Stop,  father ;  come  down.  We  are  in  fault j  we  give 
everything  back  to  you.    Come  down." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  disposing  of  what's  ours  ?  "  put 
in  Sletkin.     Evlampia  merely  scowled  more  angrily. 

"  I  give  you  back  my  share.  I  give  up  everything.  Give 
over,  come  down,  father !     Forgive  us ;  forgive  me." 

Harlov  still  went  on  smiling.  "  It's  too  late,  my  darling," 
he  said,  and  each  of  his  words  rang  out  like  brass.  "  Too 
late  your  stony  heart  is  touched !  The  rock's  started  rolling 
down-hill — there's  no  holding  it  back  now !  And  don't  look 
to  me  now ;  I'm  a  doomed  man !  You'd  do  better  to  look 
to  your  Volodka ;  see  what  a  pretty  fellow  you've  picked  out ! 
And  look  to  your  hellish  sister ;  there's  her  foxy  nose  yonder 
thrust  out  of  the  window;  she's  peering  yonder  after  that 
husband  of  hers  !  No,  my  good  friends ;  you  would  rob  me 
of  a  roof  over  my  head,  so  I  will  leave  you  not  one  beam 
upon  another !  With  my  own  hands  I  built  it,  with  my  own 
hands  I  destroy  it — yes,  with  my  hands  alone !  See,  I've 
taken  no  axe  to  help  me  !  " 

He  snorted  at  his  two  open  hands,  and  clutched  at  the 
centre  beam  again. 

"  Enough,  father,"  Evlampia  was  saying  meanwhile,  and 
her  voice  had  grown  marvellously  caressing,  "  let  bygones  be 
bygones.  Come,  trust  me;  you  always  trusted  me.  Come, 
get  down;  come  to  me  to  my  little  room,  to  my  soft  bed.  I 
will  dry  you  and  warm  you;  I  will  bind  up  your  wounds; 
see,  you  have  torn  your  hands.  You  shall  live  with  me  as  in 
Christ's  bosom ;  food  shall  be  sweet  to  you — and  sleep  sweeter 
yet.  Come,  we  have  done  wrong !  yes,  we  were  puffed  up, 
we  have  sinned ;  come,  forgive  !  " 

Harlov  shook  his  head.  "  Talk  away  !  Me  believe  you  ! 
Never  again !  You've  murdered  all  trust  in  my  heart ! 
You've  murdered  everything!  I  was  an  eagle,  and  became 
a  worm  for  you  .  .  .  and  you — would  you  even  crush  the 
worm  ?  Have  done !  I  loved  you,  you  know  very  well — 
but  now  you  are  no  daughter  to  me,  and  I'm  no  father  to 
you  .  .  .  I'm  a  doomed  man !  Don^t  meddle  !  As  for  you, 
fire  away,  coward,  mighty  man  of  valour ! "  Harlov  bellowed 


428  THE  BOOfK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

suddenly  at  Sletkin.  "  Why  is  it  you  keep  aiming  and  don't 
shoot?  Are  you  mindful  of  the  law;  if  the  recipient  of  a 
gift  commits  an  attempt  upon  the  life  of  the  giver,"  Harlov 
enunciated  distinctly,  "  then  the  giver  is  empowered  to  claim 
everything  back  again  ?  Ha,  ha  !  don't  be  afraid,  law-abiding 
man !  I'd  make  no  claims.  I'll  make  an  end  of  everything 
myself.  .  .  .  Here  goes !  " 

"  Father !  "  for  the  last  time  Evlampia  besought  him. 

"  Silence !  " 

"  Martin  Petrovitch  !  brother,  be  generous  and  forgive  !  " 
faltered  Souvenir. 

"  Father  !  dear  father  !  " 

"  Silence,  bitch  !  "  shouted  Harlov.  At  Souvenir  he  did 
not  even  glance — he  merely  spat  in  his  direction. 


XXVII 

At  that  instant,  Kvitsinsky,  with  all  his  retinue — in  three 
carts — appeared  at  the  gates.  The  tired  horses  panted,  the 
men  jumped  out,  one  after  another,  into  the  mud. 

"  Aha !  "  Harlov  shouted  at  the  top  of  his  voice.  "  An 
army  .  .  .  here  it  comes,  an  army !  A  whole  army  they're 
sending  against  me  !  Capital !  Only  I  give  warning — if  any 
one  comes  up  here  to  me  on  the  roof,  I'll  send  him  flying 
down,  head  over  heels  !  I'm  an  inhospitable  master ;  I  don't 
like  visitors  at  wrong  times  !     No  indeed  !  " 

He  was  hanging  with  both  hands  on  to  the  front  rafters 
of  the  roof,  the  so-called  standards  of  the  gable,  and  begin- 
ning to  shake  them  violently.  Balancing  on  the  edge  of  the 
garret  flooring,  he  dragged  them,  as  it  were,  after  him, 
chanting  rhythmically  like  a  bargeman :  "  One  more  pull ! 
one  more  !  o-oh  !  " 

Sletkin  ran  up  to  Kvitsinsky  and  was  beginning  to  whim- 
per and  pour  out  complaints.  .  .  .  The  latter  begged  him 
"  not  to  interfere,"  and  proceeded  to  carry  out  the  plan  he 
had  evolved.  He  took  up  his  position  in  front  of  the  house, 
and  began,  by  way  of  diversion,  to  explain  to  Harlov  that 
what  he  was  about  was  unworthy  of  his  rank.  .  .  . 

"  One  more  pull !  one  more  !  "  chanted  Harlov. 

"  That  Natalia  Nikolaevna  was  greatly  displeased  at  his 
proceedings,  and  had  not  expected  it  of  him.  ..." 


A  LEAR   OF  THE  STEPPES  429 

"  One  more  pull !  one  more  !  o-oh  !  "  Harlov  chanted  .  .  . 
while,  meantime,  Kvitsinsky  had  despatched  the  four  sturdi- 
est and  boldest  of  the  stable-boys  to  the  other  side  of  the 
house  to  clamber  up  the  roof  from  behind.  Harlov,  however, 
detected  the  plan  of  attack;  he  suddenly  left  the  standards 
and  ran  quickly  to  the  back  part  of  the  roof.  His  appear- 
ance was  so  alarming  that  the  two  stable-boys  who  had  al- 
ready got  up  to  the  garret  dropped  instantly  back  again  to 
the  ground  by  the  water-pipe,  to  the  great  glee  of  the  serf 
boys,  who  positively  roared  with  laughter.  Harlov  shook  his 
fist  after  them  and,  going  back  to  the  front  part  of  the  house, 
again  clutched  at  the  standards  and  began  once  more  loosen- 
ing them,  singing  again,  like  a  bargeman. 

Suddenly  he  stopped,  stared.  .  .  . 

"  Maximushka,  my  dear ;  my  friend !  "  he  cried ;  "  is  it 
you?" 

I  looked  round.  .  .  .  There,  actually,  was  Maximka,  step- 
ping out  from  the  crowd  of  peasants.  Grinning  and  showing 
his  teeth,  he  walked  forward.  His  master,  the  tailor,  had 
probably  let  him  come  home  for  a  holiday. 

"  Climb  up  to  me,  Maximushka,  my  faithful  servant," 
Harlov  went  on ;  "  together  let  us  rid  ourselves  of  evil  Tar- 
tar folk,  of  Lithuanian  thieves  !  " 

Maximka,  still  grinning,  promptly  began  climbing  up  the 
roof.  ,  .  .  But  they  seized  him  and  pulled  him  back — good- 
ness knows  why ;  possibly  as  an  example  to  the  rest ;  he  could 
hardly  have  been  much  aid  to  Martin  Petrovitch. 

"  Oh,  all  right !  Good  !  "  Harlov  pronounced,  in  a  voice 
of  menace,  and  again  he  took  hold  of  the  standards. 

"  Vikenty  Osipitch !  with  your  permission,  I'll  shoot," 
Sletkin  turned  to  Kvitsinsky ;  "  more  to  frighten  him,  see, 
than  anything ;  my  gun's  only  charged  with  snipe-shot."  But 
Kvitsinsky  had  not  time  to  answer  him,  when  the  front  couple 
of  standards,  viciously  shaken  in  Harlov's  iron  hands,  heeled 
over  with  a  loud  crack  and  crashed  into  the  yard ;  and  with 
it,  not  able  to  stop  himself,  came  Harlov  too,  and  fell  with 
a  heavy  thud  on  the  earth.  Every  one  shuddered  and  drew 
a  deep  breath.  .  .  .  Harlov  lay  without  stirring  on  his  breast, 
and  on  his  back  lay  the  top  central  beam  of  the  roof,  which 
had  come  down  with  the  falling  gable's  timbers. 


430      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 


XXVIII 

They  ran  up  to  Harlov,  rolled  the  beam  off  him,  turned 
him  over  on  his  back.  His  face  was  lifeless,  there  was  blood 
about  his  mouth ;  he  did  not  seem  to  breathe.  "  The  breath 
is  gone  out  of  him,"  muttered  the  peasants,  standing  about 
him.  They  ran  to  the  well  for  water,  brought  a  whole  buck- 
etful, and  drenched  Harlov's  head.  The  mud  and  dust  ran 
off  his  face,  but  he  looked  as  lifeless  as  ever.  They  dragged 
up  a  bench,  set  it  in  the  house  itself,  and  with  difficulty  rais- 
ing the  huge  body  of  Martin  Petrovitch,  laid  it  there  with  the 
head  to  the  wall.  The  page  Maximka  approached,  fell  on  one 
knee,  and,  his  other  leg  stretched  far  behind  him,  in  a  the- 
atrical way,  supported  his  former  master's  arm.  Evlampia, 
pale  as  death,  stood  directly  facing  her  father,  her  great  eyes 
fastened  immovably  upon  him.  Anna  and  Sletkin  did  not 
come  near  him.  All  were  silent,  all,  as  it  were,  waited  for 
something.  At  last  we  heard  broken,  smacking  noises  in 
Harlov's  throat,  as  though  he  were  swallowing.  .  .  .  Then 
he  feebly  moved  one,  his  right,  hand  (Maximka  supported 
the  left),  opened  one,  the  right,  eye,  and  slowly  gazing  about 
him,  as  though  drunken  with  some  fearful  drunkenness, 
groaned,  articulated,  stammering :  "  I'm  sma-ashed  "...  and 
as  though  after  a  moment's  thought,  added,  "  here  it  is,  the 
ra  .  .  .  aven  co  .  .  .  olt !  "  The  blood  suddenly  gushed 
thickly  from  his  mouth  ...  his  whole  body  began  to 
quiver.  .  .  . 

"  The  end ! "  I  thought.  .  .  .  But  once  more  Harlov 
opened  the  same  eye  (the  left  eyelid  lay  as  motionless  as  on 
a  dead  man's  face),  and  fixing  it  on  Evlampia,  he  articulated, 
hardly  above  a  breath :  "  Well,  daugh  .  .  .  ter  .  .  .  you,  I  do 
not  .  .  ." 

Kvitsinsky,  with  a  sharp  motion  of  his  hand,  beckoned 
to  the  priest,  who  was  still  standing  on  the  step.  .  .  .  The 
old  man  came  up,  his  narrow  cassock  clinging  about  his  feeble 
knees.  But  suddenly  there  was  a  sort  of  horrible  twitching 
in  Harlov's  legs  and  in  his  stomach  too;  an  irregular  contrac- 
tion passed  upward  over  his  face.  Evlampia's  face  seemed 
quivering  and  working  in  the  same  way.  Maximka  began 
crossing  himself.  ...  I  was  seized  with  horror;  I  ran  out 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES  43* 

to  the  gates,  squeezed  myself  close  to  them,  not  looking 
round.  A  minute  later  a  soft  murmur  ran  through  the 
crowd,  behind  my  back,  and  I  understood  that  Martin  Petro- 
vitch  was  no  more. 

His  skull  had  been  fractured  by  the  beam  and  his  ribs 
injured,  as  it  appeared  at  the  post-mortem  examination. 

XXIX 

Wnat  had  he  wanted  to  say  to  her  as  he  lay  dying?  I 
asked  myself  as  I  went  home  on  my  cob :  "  I  do  not  .  .  .  for- 
give," or  "  do  not  .  .  .  pardon."  The  rain  had  come  on 
again,  but  I  rode  at  a  walking  pace.  I  wanted  to  be  alone 
as  long  as  possible ;  I  wanted  to  give  myself  up  to  my  reflec- 
tions, unchecked.  Souvenir  had  gone  back  in  one  of  the 
carts  that  had  come  with  Kvitsinsky.  Young  and  frivolous  as 
I  was  at  that  time,  the  sudden  sweeping  change  (not  in  mere 
details  only)  that  is  invariably  called  forth  in  all  hearts  by 
the  coming  of  death — expected  or  unexpected,  it  makes  no 
difference  ! — its  majesty,  its  gravity,  and  its  truthfulness  could 
not  fail  to  impress  me.  I  was  impressed  too,  .  .  .  but  for  all 
that,  my  troubled,  childish  eyes  noted  many  things  at  once; 
they  noted  how  Sletkin,  hurriedly  and  furtively,  as  though 
it  were  something  stolen,  popped  the  gun  out  of  sight ;  how 
he  and  his  wife  became,  both  of  them,  instantly  the  object 
of  a  sort  of  unspoken  but  universal  aloofness.  To  Evlampia, 
though  her  fault  was  probably  no  less  than  her  sister's,  this 
aloofness  did  not  extend.  She  even  aroused  a  certain  sym- 
pathy, when  she  fell  at  her  dead  father's  feet.  But  that  she 
too  was  guilty,  that  was  none  the  less  felt  by  all.  "  The  old 
man  was  wronged,"  said  a  gray-haired  peasant  with  a  big 
head,  leaning,  like  some  ancient  judge,  with  both  hands  and 
his  beard  on  a  long  staff;  "on  your  soul  lies  the  sin!  You 
wronged  him  !  "  That  saying  was  at  once  accepted  by  every 
one  as  the  final  judgment.  The  peasants'  sense  of  justice 
found  expression  in  it,  I  felt  that  at  once.  I  noticed  too 
that,  at  the  first,  Sletkin  did  not  dare  to  give  directions. 
Without  him,  they  lifted  up  the  body  and  carried  it  into  the 
other  house.  Without  asking  him,  the  priest  went  for  every- 
thing needful  to  the  church,  while  the  village  elder  ran  to  the 
village  to  send  ofif  a  cart  and-horse  to  the  town.    Even  Anna 


432      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

Martinovna  did  not  venture  to  use  her  ordinary  imperious 
tone  in  ordering  the  samovar  to  be  brought,  "  for  hot  water, 
to  wash  the  deceased."  Her  orders  were  more  like  an  en- 
treaty, and  she  was  answered  rudely.  .  .  . 

I  was  absorbed  all  the  while  by  the  question:  What  was 
it  exactly  he  wanted  to  say  to  his  daughter?  Did  he  want 
to  forgive  her  or  to  curse  her?  Finally  I  decided  that  it  was 
— forgiveness. 

Three  days  later,  the  funeral  of  Martin  Petrovitch  took 
place.  The  cost  of  the  ceremony  was  undertaken  by  my 
mother,  who  was  deeply  grieved  at  his  death,  and  gave  orders 
that  no  expense  was  to  be  spared.  She  did  not  herself  go  to 
the  church,  because  she  was  unwilling,  as  she  said,  to  set 
eyes  on  those  two  vile  hussies  and  that  nasty  little  Jew. 
But  she  sent  Kvitsinsky,  me,  and  Zhitkov,  though  from  that 
time  forward  she  always  spoke  of  the  latter  as  a  regular  old 
woman.  Souvenir  she  did  not  admit  to  her  presence,  and  was 
furious  with  him  for  long  after,  saying  that  he  was  the  mur- 
derer of  her  friend.  He  felt  his  disgrace  acutely;  he  was 
continually  running,  on  tiptoe,  up  and  down  the  room,  next 
to  the  one  where  my  mother  was;  he  gave  himself  up  to  a 
sort  of  scared  and  abject  melancholy,  shuddering  and  mutter- 
ing, "  D'rectly !  " 

In  church,  and  during  the  procession,  Sletkin  struck  me 
as  having  recovered  his  self-possession.  He  gave  directions 
and  bustled  about  in  his  old  way,  and  kept  a  greedy  lookout 
that  not  a  superfluous  farthing  should  be  spent,  though  his 
own  pocket  was  not  in  question.  Maximka,  in  a  new  Cos- 
sack dress,  also  a  present  from  my  mother,  gave  vent  to  such 
tenor  notes  in  the  choir,  that  certainly  no  one  could  have  any 
doubts  as  to  the  sincerity  of  his  devotion  to  the  deceased. 
Both  the  sisters  were  duly  attired  in  mourning,  but  they 
seemed  more  stupefied  than  grieved,  especially  Evlampia. 
Anna  wore  a  meek,  Lenten  air,  but  made  no  attempt  to  weep, 
and  was  continually  passing  her  handsome  thin  hand  over 
her  hair  and  cheek.  Evlampia  seemed  deep  in  thought  all 
the  time.  The  universal,  unbending  alienation,  condemnation, 
which  I  had  noticed  on  the  day  of  Harlov's  death,  I  detected 
now  too  on  the  faces  of  all  the  people  in  the  church,  in  their 
actions  and  their  glances,  but  still  more  grave  and,  as  it  were, 
impersonal.    It  seemed  as  though  all  those  people  felt  that  the 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES  433 

sin  into  which  the  Harlov  family  had  fallen — this  great  sin' 
— ^had  gone  now  before  the  presence  of  the  one  righteous 
Judge,  and  that  for  that  reason  there  was  no  need  now  for 
them  to  trouble  themselves  and  be  indignant.  They  prayed 
devoutly  for  the  soul  of  the  dead  man,  whom  in  life  they 
had  not  specially  liked,  whom  they  had  feared  indeed.  Very 
abruptly  had  death  overtaken  him. 

"  And  it's  not  as  though  he  had  been  drinking  heavily, 
brother,"  said  one  peasant  to  another,  in  the  porch. 

"  Nay,  without  drink  he  was  drunken  indeed,"  responded 
the  other. 

"  He  was  cruelly  wronged,"  the  first  peasant  repeated  the 
phrase  that  summed  it  up. 

"  Cruelly  wronged,"  the  others  murmured  after  him. 

"  The  deceased  was  a  hard  master  to  you,  wasn't  he  ?  " 
I  asked  a  peasant,  whom  I  recognised  as  one  of  Harlov's 
serfs. 

"  He  was  a  master,  certainly,"  answered  the  peasant,  "  but 
still  ...  he  was  cruelly  wronged !  " 

"  Cruelly  wronged,"  ...  I  heard  again  in  the  crowd. 

At  the  grave,  too,  Evlanipia  stood,  as  it  were,  lost. 
Thoughts  were  torturing  her  .  .  .  bitter  thoughts.  I  noticed 
that  Sletkin,  who  several  times  addressed  some  remark  to 
her,  she  treated  as  she  had  once  treated  Zhitkov,  and  worse 
still. 

Some  days  later,  there  was  a  rumour  all  over  our  neigh- 
bourhood, that  Evlampia  Martinovna  had  left  the  home  of 
her  fathers  forever,  leaving  all  the  property  that  came  to  her 
to  her  sister  and  brother-in-law,  and  only  taking  some  hun- 
dreds of  rubles.  ..."  So  Anna's  bought  her  out,  it  seems  !  " 
remarked  my  mother,  "  but  you  and  I,  certainly,"  she  added, 
addressing  Zhitkov,  with  whom  she  was  playing  picquet — 
he  took  Souvenir's  place,  "  are  not  skilful  hands  !  "  Zhit- 
kov looked  dejectedly  at  his  mighty  palms.  ..."  Hands 
like  that !  Not  skilful !  "  he  seemed  to  be  saying  to  him- 
self. .  .  . 

Soon  after,  my  mother  and  I  went  to  live  in  Moscow,  and 
many  years  passed  before  it  was  my  lot  to  behold  Martin 
Petrovitch's  daughters  again. 


434      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 


XXX 

But  I  did  see  them  again.  Anna  Martinovna  I  came 
across  in  the  most  ordinary  way. 

After  my  mother's  death  I  paid  a  visit  to  our  village, 
where  I  had  not  been  for  over  fifteen  years,  and  there  I 
received  an  invitation  from  the  mediator  (at  that  time  the 
process  of  settling  the  boundaries  between  the  peasants  and 
their  former  owners  was  taking  place  over  the  whole  of 
Russia  with  a  slowness  not  yet  forgotten)  to  a  meeting  of 
the  other  landowners  of  our  neighbourhood,  to  be  held  on 
the  estate  of  the  widow  Anna  Sletkin.  The  news  that  my 
mother's  "  nasty  little  Jew,"  with  the  prune-coloured  eyes, 
no  longer  existed  in  this  world,  caused  me,  I  confess,  no  re- 
gret whatever.  But  it  was  interesting  to  get  a  glimpse  of 
his  widow.  She  had  the  reputation  in  the  neighbourhood,  of 
a  first-rate  manager.  And  so  it  proved ;  her  estate  and  home- 
stead and  the  house  itself  (I  could  not  help  glancing  at  the 
roof;  it  was  an  iron  one)  all  turned  out  to  be  in  excellent 
order;  everything  was  neat,  clean,  tidied-up,  where  need- 
ful— painted,  as  though  its  mistress  were  a  German.  Anna 
Martinovna  herself,  of  course,  looked  older.  But  the  peculiar, 
cold,  and,  as  it  were,  wicked  charm  which  had  once  so  fas- 
cinated me  had  not  altogether  left  her.  She  was  dressed  in 
rustic  fashion,  but  elegantly.  She  received  us,  not  cordially 
— that  word  was  not  applicable  to  her — but  courteously,  and 
on  seeing  me,  a  witness  of  that  fearful  scene,  not  an  eyelash 
quivered.  She  made  not  the  slightest  reference  to  my  mother, 
nor  her  father,  nor  her  sister,  nor  her  husband. 

She  had  two  daughters,  both  very  pretty,  slim  young 
things,  with  charming  little  faces,  and  a  bright  and  friendly 
expression  in  their  black  eyes.  Thei^was  a  son,  too,  a  little 
like  his  father,  but  still  a  boy  to  be  proud  of !  During  the 
discussions  between  the  landowners,  Anna  Martinovna's  at- 
titude was  composed  and  dignified ;  she  showed  no  sign  of 
being  specially  obstinate,  nor  specially  grasping.  But  none 
had  a  truer  perception  of  their  own  interests  than  she  of 
hers;  none  could  more  convincingly  expound  and  defend 
their  rights.  All  the  laws  "  pertinent  to  the  case,"  even  the 
Minister's  circulars,  she  had  thoroughly  mastered.    She  spoke 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES  435 

little,  and  in  a  quiet  voice,  but  every  word  she  uttered  was 
to  the  point.  It  ended  in  our  all  signifying  our  agreement  to 
all  her  demands,  and  making  concessions,  which  we  could 
only  marvel  at  ourselves.  On  our  way  home,  some  of  the 
worthy  landowners  even  used  harsh  words  of  themselves; 
they  all  hummed  and  hawed,  and  shook  their  heads. 

"  Ah,  she's  got  brains,  that  woman !  "  said  one. 

"  A  ^ricky  baggage !  "  put  in  another  less  delicate  pro- 
prietor.    "  Smooth  in  word,  but  cruel  in  deed !  " 

"  And  a  screw  into  the  bargain !  "  added  a  third ;  "  not 
a  glass  of  vodka  nor  a  morsel  of  caviare  for  us — what  do 
you  think  of  that?  " 

"  What  can  one  expect  of  her?  "  suddenly  croaked  a  gen- 
tleman who  had  been  silent  till  then,  "  every  one  knows  she 
poisoned  her  husband  !  " 

To  my  astonishment,  nobody  thought  fit  to  controvert 
this  awful  and  certainly  unfounded  charge !  I  was  the  more 
surprised  at  this,  as,  in  spite  of  the  slighting  expressions  I 
have  reported,  all  of  them  felt  respect  for  Anna  Martinovna, 
not  excluding  the  indelicate  landowner.  As  for  the  mediator, 
he  waxed  positively  eloquent. 

"  Put  her  on  a  throne,"  he  exclaimed,  "  she'd  be  another 
Semiramis  or  Catherine  the  Second !  The  discipline  among 
her  peasants  is  a  perfect  model.  .  .  .  The  education  of  her 
children  is  model !    What  a  head  !     What  brains  !  " 

Without  going  into  the  question  of  Semiramis  and  Cath- 
erine, there  was  no  doubt  Anna  Martinovna  was  living  a 
very  happy  life.  Ease,  inward  and  external,  the  pleasant 
serenity  of  spiritual  health,  seemed  the  very  atmosphere  about 
herself,  her  family,  all  her  surroundings.  How  far  she  had 
deserved  such  happiness  .  .  .  that  is  another  question.  Such 
questions,  though,  are  only  propounded  in  youth.  Every- 
thing in  the  world,  good  and  bad,  comes  to  man,  not  through 
his  deserts,  but  in  consequence  of  some  as  yet  unknown  but 
logical  laws  which  I  will  not  take  upon  myself  to  indicate, 
though  I  sometimes  fancy  I  have  a  dim  perception  of  them. 


XXXI 

I   questioned  the  mediator  about  Evlampia  Martinovna, 
and  learnt  that  she  had  been  lost  sight  of  completely  ever 


436  THE  BOOtC  OF  THE  SHORT  STORV 

since  she  left  home,  and  probably  "had  departed  this  life 
long  ago." 

So  our  worthy  mediator  expressed  himself  .  .  .  but  I  am 
convinced  that  I  have  seen  Evlampia,  that  I  have  come  across 
her.    This  was  how  it  was. 

Four  years  after  my  interview  with  Anna  Martinovna, 
I  was  spending  the  summer  at  Murino,  a  little  hamlet  near 
Petersburg,  a  well-known  resort  of  summer  visitors  of  the 
middle  class.  The  shooting  was  pretty  decent  about  Murino 
at  that  time,  and  I  used  to  go  out  with  my  gun  almost  every 
day.  I  had  a  companion  on  my  expeditions,  a  man  of  the 
tradesman  class,  called  Vikulov,  a  very  sensible  and  good- 
natured  fellow ;  but,  as  he  said  of  himself,  of  no  position  what- 
ever. This  man  had  been  simply  everywhere,  and  everything  ! 
Nothing  could  astonish  him,  he  knew  everything — but  he 
cared  for  nothing  but  shooting  and  wine.  Well,  one  day  we 
were  on  our  way  home  to  Murino,  and  we  chanced  to  pass  a 
solitary  house,  standing  at  the  crossroads,  and  enclosed  by 
a  high,  close  paling.  It  was  not  the  first  time  I  had  seen  the 
house,  and  every  time  it  excited  my  curiosity.  There  was 
something  about  it  mysterious,  locked-up,  grimly-dumb,  some- 
thing suggestive  of  a  prison  or  a  hospital.  Nothing  of  it 
could  be  seen  from  the  road  but  its  steep,  dark,  red-painted 
roof.  There  was  only  one  pair  of  gates  in  the  whole  fence ; 
and  these  seemed  fastened  and  never  opened.  No  sound 
came  from  the  other  side  of  them.  For  all  that,  we  felt  that 
some  one  was  certainly  living  in  the  house;  it  had  not  at  all 
the  air  of  a  deserted  dwelling.  On  the  contrary,  everything 
about  it  was  stout,  and  tight,  and  strong,  as  if  it  would 
stand  a  siege ! 

"  What  is  that  fortress?  "  I  asked  my  companion.  "  Don't 
you  know  ?  " 

Vikulov  gave  a  sly  wink.  "  A  fine  building,  eh  ?  The 
police  captain  of  these  parts  gets  a  nice  little  income  out 
of  it!" 

"  liow's  that?  " 

"  I'll  tell  you.  You've  heard,  I  daresay,  of  the  Flagellant 
dissenters — that  do  without  priests,  you  know  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  it's  there  that  their  chief  mother  lives." 

"  A  woman  ?  " 


A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES  437 

"  Yes — the  mother ;  a  mother  of  God,  they  say." 

"Nonsense !  " 

"  I  tell  you,  it  is  so.  She  is  a  strict  one,  they  say.  .  .  . 
A  regular  commander-in-chief !  She  rules  over  thousands  ! 
I'd  take  her,  and  all  these  mothers  of  God  .  .  .  But  what's 
the  use  of  talking?" 

He  called  his  Pegashka,  a  marvellous  dog,  with  an  ex- 
cellent scent,  but  with  no  notion  of  setting.  Vikulov  was 
obliged  to  tie  her  hind  paws  to  keep  her  from  running  so 
furiously. 

His  words  sank  into  my  memory.  I  sometimes  went 
out  of  my  way  to  pass  by  the  mysterious  house.  One  day  I 
had  just  got  up  to  it,  when  suddenly — wonderful  to  relate  ! — a 
bolt  grated  in  the  gates,  a  key  creaked  in  the  lock,  then  the 
gates  themselves  slowly  parted,  there  appeared  a  large  horse's 
head,  with  a  plaited  forelock  under  a  decorated  yoke,  and 
slowly  there  rolled  into  the  road  a  small  cart,  like  those 
driven  by  horse-dealers  and  higglers.  On  the  leather  cushion 
of  the  cart,  near  to  me,  sat  a  peasant  of  about  thirty,  of  a 
remarkably  handsome  and  attractive  appearance,  in  a  neat 
black  smock,  and  a  black  cap,  pulled  down  low  on  his  fore- 
head. He  was  carefully  driving  the  well-fed  horse,  whose 
sides  were  as  broad  as  a  stove.  Beside  the  peasant,  on  the 
far  side  of  the  cart,  sat  a  tall  woman,  as  straight  as  an  arrow. 
Her  head  was  covered  by  a  costly-looking  black  shawl.  She 
was  dressed  in  a  short  jerkin  of  dove-coloured  velvet,  and  a 
dark  blue  merino  skirt;  her  white  hands  she  held  discreetly 
clasped  on  her  bosom.  The  cart  turned  on  the  road  to  the 
left,  and  brought  the  woman  within  two  paces  of  me;  she 
turned  her  head  a  little,  and  I  recognised  Evlampia  Harlov. 
I  knew  her  at  once,  I  did  not  doubt  for  one  instant,  and  in- 
deed no  doubt  was  possible ;  eyes  like  hers,  and  above  all  that 
cut  of  the  lips — haughty  and  sensual — I  had  never  seen  in 
any  one  else.  Her  face  had  grown  longer  and  thinner,  the 
skin  was  darker,  here  and  there  lines  could  be  discerned; 
but,  above  all,  the  expression  of  the  face  was  changed !  It 
is  difficult  to  do  justice  in  words  to  the  self-confidence,  the 
sternness,  the  pride  it  had  gained !  Not  simply  the  serenity 
of  power — the  satiety  of  power  was  visible  in  every  feature. 
The  careless  glance  she  cast  at  me  told  of  long  years  of 
habitually  meeting  nothing  but  reverent,  unquestioning  obe- 


43^      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

dience.  That  woman  clearly  lived  surrounded,  not  by  wor- 
shippers,'but  by  slaves.  She  had  clearly  forgotten  even  the 
time  when  any  command,  any  desire  of  hers,  was  not  carried 
out  at  the  instant !  I  called  her  loudly  by  her  name  and  her 
father's;  she  gave  a  faint  start,  looked  at  me  a  second  time, 
not  with  alarm,  but  with  contemptuous  wrath,  as  though 
asking :  "  Who  dares  to  disturb  me  ?  "  and  barely  parting  her 
lips,  uttered  a  word  of  command.  The  peasant  sitting  beside 
her  started  forward,  with  a  wave  of  his  arm  struck  the  horse 
with  the  reins — the  horse  set  off  at  a  strong  rapid  trot,  and 
the  cart  disappeared. 

Since  then  I  have  not  seen  Evlampia  again.  In  what 
way  Martin  Petrovitch's  daughter  came  to  be  a  Holy  Virgin 
in  the  Flagellant  sect  I  cannot  imagine.  But,  who  knows, 
very  likely  she  has  founded  a  sect  which  will  be  called — or 
even  now  is  called — after  her  name,  the  Evlampieshtchin 
sect?    Anything  may  be,  anything  may  come  to  pass. 

And  so  this  is  what  I  had  to  tell  you  of  my  Lear  of  the 
Steppes,  of  his  family  and  his  doings. 

The  story-teller  ceased,  and  we  talked  a  little  longer,  and 
then  parted,  each  to  his  home. 


A   LIST    OF    REPRESENTATIVE    TALES    AND 
SHORT   STORIES 

XVI 

1880   TO    1890: 

Les  Soirees  de  Medan;  Emile  Zola,  and  others  (1880). 
Contes  Cruels,  Villiers^de  L'Isle-Adam  (1880). 
L'Attaque  du  Moulin,  Emile  Zola  (1880). 
Boule  de  Suif,  Guy  de  Maupassant  (1880). 
Uncle  Remus,  J.  C.  Harris  (1880). 
Vorstadtgeschichten,  Heinrich  Seidel  (1880). 
Vita  dei  Campi,  Giovanni  Verga  (1880). 
Contes  pour  les  Femmes,  Theodore  de  Banville  (1881). 
Un  Mariage  dAmour,  Ludovic  Halevy  (1881). 
La  Maison  Tellier,  Guy  de  Maupassant  (1881). 
Thrawn  Janet,  R.  L.  Stevenson  (1881). 
Contes  Feeriques,  Theodore  de  Banville  (1882). 
Poems  in  Prose,  Ivan  Turgeneff  (1882). 
Quatre  Petits  Romans,  Jean  Richepin  (1882). 
Contes  en  Prose,  Francois  Coppee  (1882). 
The  Merry  Men,  R.  L.  Stevenson  (1882). 
Cuentos  y  Dialogos,  Juan  Valera  (1882). 
Mademoiselle  Fifi,  Guy  de  Maupassant  (1882). 
Vingt  Contes  Nouveaux,  Francois  Coppee  (1883). 
After  Death,  Ivan  Turgeneff  (1883). 
Mrs.  Knollys,  F.  J.  Stimson   (1883). 
Contes  de  la  Becasse,  Guy  de  Maupassant  (1883). 
Plautus  im  Nonnenkloster,  C.  F.  Meyer  (1883). 
Contes  Heroiques,  Theodore  de  Banville  (1884). 
Clair  de  Lune,  Guy  de  Maupassant   (1884). 
Nights  with  Uncle  Remus,  J.  C.  Harris  (1884). 
Cavalleria  Rusticana,  Giovanni  Verga  (1884). 
The  Lady  or  the  Tiger?,  and  Other  Stories;  Frank  R.  Stock- 
ton (1884). 

439 


440  THE   BOOK  OF  THE   SHORT  STORY 

Markheim,  R.  L.  Stevenson  (1884). 

In  the  Tennessee  Mountains,  Charles  Egbert  Craddock 
(1884). 

Ivan   Ilyitch,   and  Other  Stories;   Lyof  Tolstoy   (1884-86). 

Contes  Bourgeois,  Theodore  de  Banville  (1885). 

Olalla,  R.  L.  Stevenson  (1885). 

Contes  et  Recits  en  Prose,  Franqois  Coppee   (1885). 

Contes  du  Jour  et  de  la  Nuit,  Guy  de  Maupassant   (1885). 

More  New  Arabian  Nights,  R.  L.   Stevenson   (1885), 

Monsieur  Parent,  Guy  de  Maupassant   (1886). 

The  Strange  Case  of  Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde,  R.  L.  Steven- 
son (1886). 

La  Belle  Nivernaise,  Alphonse  Daudet  (1886). 

A  White  Heron  and  Other  Stories,  Sarah  Orne  Jewett 
(1886). 

Le  Horla,  Guy  de  Maupassant  (1887). 

A  Humble  Romance,  Mary  E.  Wilkins  (1887). 

The  Merry  Men,  and  Other  Tales  and  Fables,  R.  L.  Steven- 
son (1887). 

In   Ole  Virginia,  Thomas  Nelson   Page   (1887). 

Contes  Rapides,  Francois  Coppee    (1888). 

Plain  Tales  from  the  Hills,  Rudyard  Kipling  (1888). 

Soldiers  Three,  Rudyard  Kipling  (1888). 

The   Phantom   Rickshaw,  Rudyard  Kipling    (1888). 

Auld  Licht  Idylls,  J.  M.  Barrie   (1888). 

Wessex  Tales,  Thomas  Hardy   (1888). 

Geschwister,  Hermann  Sudermann   (1888). 

Pastels,  Paul  Bourget  (1889). 

A  Window  in  Thrums,  J.  M.  Barrie  (1889). 


MARKHEIM 


MARKHEIM 

Markheim,  written  by  Robert  Louis  Stevenson 
(1850-1894)  in  1884,  was  first  published  in  the  Christmas 
number  of  Unwin's  Annual,  1885,  under  the  title  Mark- 
heim: The  Broken  Shaft.  It  was  republished  in  1887,  in 
the  collection  entitled  The  Merry  Men,  and  Other  Tales 
and  Fables.  The  most  important  of  Stevenson's  Short 
Stories  are:  A  Lodging  for  the  Night  (1877),  Will  o'  the 
Mill  (1878),  The  Sire  de  Maletroit's  Door  (1878),  The 
Pavilion  on  the  Links  (1880),  Thrawn  Janet  (1881), 
Markheim  (1885),  Olalla  (1885),  The  Strange  Case  of 
Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde  (1886),  The  Beach  of  Fafesa 
(1892),  The  Tale  of  Tod  Lapraik  (in  David  Balfour: 
1893).  For  an  illustration  of  the  Short  Story  in  process 
of  construction,  the  reader  is  referred  to  the  eighth  chap- 
ter of  Stevenson's  The  Master  of  Ballantrae  (1888-89). 

Most  critics  of  Stevenson's  writings  have  not  failed  to 
remark  both  the  resemblance  and  the  difference  between 
Markheim  and  The  Strange  Case  of  Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr. 
Hyde.  Graham  Balfour  says,  in  The  Life  of  Robert  Louis 
Stevenson:  "  A  subject  much  in  his  thoughts  at  this  time 
[1885]  ^^^  t^^  duality  of  man's  nature  and  the  alterna- 
tion of  good  and  evil ;  and  he  was  for  a  long  time  casting 
about  for  a  story  to  embody  this  central  idea.  Out  of 
this  frame  of  mind  had  come  the  sombre  imagination  of 
Markheim,  but  that  was  not  what  he  required.  The  true 
story  still  delayed,  till  suddenly  one  night  he  had  a  dream. 
He  awoke,  and  found  himself  in  possession  of  two,  or 
rather  three,  of  the  scenes  in  The  Strange  Case  of  Dr. 
Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde." 

443 


444      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

Though  Markheim  must  perhaps  yield  in  point  of 
greatness  to  Dr.  Jekyll  (that  most  vertiginous  of  the 
works  of  fiction  of  the  nineteenth  century),  it  is  surely 
its  superior  as  an  embodiment  of  the  art  of  the  Short 
Story,  in  its  economy  of  means  and  its  precision  of 
effect.  The  words  of  Balzac  may  well  be  applied  to 
it :  ''A  narrative  sharp  and  incisive  as  a  blow  with  an 
axe." 

And  in  "  Markheim,  that  singular  and  vivid  study," 
as  L.  Cope  Cornford  calls  it,  the  wonderful  conversation 
between  Markheim  and  his  visitant  surely  holds  first 
place.  It  is  one  of  the  most  brilliant  of  all  its  author's 
achievements,  and  has  a  wisdom  that  goes  to  the  heart 
of  things. 

authorities: 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  by  L.  Cope  Cornford. 

The  Life  of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  by  Graham 
Balfour. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  by  Walter  Raleigh. 

Partial  Portraits,  by  Henry  James. 

The  Short  Story  in  English,  by  Henry  Seidel  Canby 
(Chapter  XVH). 


^  MARKHEIM 

"Yes,"  said  the  dealer,  "our  windfalls  are  of  various 
kinds.  Some  customers  are  ignorant,  and  then  I  touch  a 
dividend  on  my  superior  knowledge.  Some  are  dishonest," 
and  here  he  held  up  the  candle,  so  that  the  light  fell  strongly 
on  his  visitor,  "  and  in  that  case,"  he  continued,  "  I  profit  by 
my  virtue." 

Markheim  had  but  just  entered  from  the  daylight  streets, 
and  his  eyes  had  not  yet  grown  familiar  with  the  mingled 
shine  and  darkness  in  the  shop.  At  these  pointed  words, 
and  before  the  near  presence  of  the  flame,  he  blinked  pain- 
fully and  looked. aside. 

The  dealer  chuckled.  "  You  come  to  me  on  Christmas 
day,"  he  resumed,  "  when  you  know  that  I  am  alone  in  my 
house,  put  up  my  shutters,  and  make  a  point  of  refusing 
business.  Well,  you  will  have  to  pay  for  that ;  you  will  have 
to  pay  for  my  loss  of  time,  when  I  should  be  balancing  my 
books;  you  will  have  to  pay,  besides,  for  a  kind  of  manner 
that  I  remark  in  you  to-day  very  strongly.  I  am  the  essence 
of  discretion,  and  ask  no  awkward  questions;  but  when  a 
customer  cannot  look  me  in  the  eye,  he  has  to  pay  for  it." 
The  dealer  once  more  chuckled;  and  then,  changing  to  his 
usual  business  voice,  though  still  with  a  note  of  irony,  "  You 
can  give,  as  usual,  a  clear  account  of  how  you  came  into 
the  possession  of  the  object?"  he  continued.  "Still  your 
uncle's  cabinet  ?     A  remarkable  collector,  sir  !  " 

And  the  little  pale,  round-shouldered  dealer  stood  almost 
on  tiptoe,  looking  over  the  top  of  his  gold  spectacles,  and 
nodding  his  head  with  every  mark  of  disbelief.  Markheim 
returned  his  gaze  with  one  of  infinite  pity,  and  a  touch  of 
horror. 

"  This  time,"  said  he,  "  you  are  in  error.  I  have  not  come 
to  sell,  but  to  buy.     I  have  no  curios  to  dispose  of;   my 

445 


446      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

uncle's  cabinet  is  bare  to  the  wainscot;  even  were  it  still 
intact,  I  have  done  well  on  the  Stock  Exchange,  and  should 
more  likely  add  to  it  than  otherwise,  and  my  errand  to-day 
is  simplicity  itself.  I  seek  a  Christmas  present  for  a  lady," 
he  continued,  waxing  more  fluent  as  he  struck  into  the  speech 
he  had  prepared ;  "  and  certainly  I  owe  you  every  excuse  for 
thus  disturbing  you  upon  so  small  a  matter.  But  the  thing 
was  neglected  yesterday;  I  must  produce  my  little  compli- 
ment at  dinner ;  and,  as  you  very  well  know,  a  rich  marriage 
is  not  a  thing  to  be  neglected." 

There  followed  a  pause,  during  which  the  dealer  seemed 
to  weigh  this  statement  incredulously.  The  ticking  of  many 
clocks  among  the  curious  lumber  of  the  shop,  and  the  faint 
rushing  of  the  cabs  in  a  near  thoroughfare,  filled  up  the 
interval  of  silence. 

*'  Well,  sir,"  said  the  dealer,  "  be  it  so.  You  are  an  old 
customer  after  all ;  and  if,  as  you  say,  you  have  the  chance 
of  a  good  marriage,  far  be  it  from  me  to  be  an  obstacle.  Here 
is  a  nice  thing  for  a  lady  now,"  he  went  on,  "  this  hand-glass 
— fifteenth  century,  warranted ;  comes  from  a  good  collection, 
too ;  but  I  reserve  the  name,  in  the  interests  of  my  customer, 
who  was,  just  like  yourself,  my  dear  sir,  the  nephew  and  sole 
heir  of  a  remarkable  collector." 

The  dealer,  while  he  thus  ran  on  in  his  dry  and  biting 
voice,  had  stooped  to  take  the  object  from  its  place;  and,  as 
he  had  done  so,  a  shock  had  passed  through  Markheim,  a 
start  both  of  hand  and  foot,  a  sudden  leap  of  many  tumultu- 
ous passions  to  the  face.  It  passed  as  swiftly  as  it  came, 
and  left  no  trace  beyond  a  certain  trembling  of  the  hand  that 
now  received  the  glass. 

"  A  glass,"  he  said  hoarsely,  and  then  paused,  and  repeated 
it  more  clearly.    "  A  glass  ?     For  Christmas  ?    Surely  not  ?  " 

"  And  why  not  ?  "  cried  the  dealer.    "  Why  not  a  glass?  " 

Markheim  was  looking  upon  him  with  an  indefinable  ex- 
pression. "  You  ask  me  why  not  ?  "  he  said.  "  Why,  look 
here — look  in  it — look  at  yourself!  Do  you  like  to  see  it? 
No !  nor  I — nor  any  man." 

The  little  man  had  jumped  back  when  Markheim  had  so 
suddenly  confronted  him  with  the  mirror ;  but  now,  perceiv- 
ing there  was  nothing  worse  on  hand,  he  chuckled.  "  Your 
future  lady,  sir,  mdst  be  pretty  hard  favoured,"  said  he. 


MARKHEIM  447 

*'  I  ask  you/'  said  Markheim,  "  for  a  Christmas  present, 
and  you  give  me  this — this  damned  reminder  of  years,  and 
sins  and  follies — this  hand-conscience  !  Did  you  mean  it  ? 
Had  you  a  thought  in  your  mind  ?  Tell  me.  It  will  be  better 
for  you  if  you  do.  Come,  tell  me  about  yourself.  I  hazard 
a  guess  now,  that  you  are  in  secret  a  very  charitable  man?  " 

The  dealer  looked  closely  at  his  companion.  It  was  very 
odd,  Markheim  did  not  appear  to  be  laughing;  there  was 
something  in  his  face  like  an  eager  sparkle  of  hope,  but  noth- 
ing of  mirth. 

"  What  are  you  driving  at?  "  the  dealer  asked. 

"  Not  charitable  ?  "  returned  the  other,  gloomily.  "  Not 
charitable ;  not  pious ;  not  scrupulous ;  unloving,  unbeloved ; 
a  hand  to  get  money,  a  safe  to  keep  it.  Is  that  all?  Dear 
God,  man,  is  that  all  ?  " 

"  I  will  tell  you  what  it  is,"  began  the  dealer,  with  some 
sharpness,  and  then  broke  off  again  into  a  chuckle.  "  But  I 
see  this  is  a  love-match  of  yours,  and  you  have  been  drinking 
the  lady's  health." 

"  Ah  !  "  cried  Markheim,  with  a  strange  curiosity.  "  Ah, 
have  you  been  in  love  ?    Tell  me  about  that." 

"  I !  "  cried  the  dealer.  "  I  in  love  !  I  never  had  the  time, 
nor  have  I  the  time  to-day  for  all  this  nonsense.  Will  you 
take  the  glass?  " 

"  Where  is  the  hurry?  "  returned  Markheim.  "  It  is  very 
pleasant  to  stand  here  talking;  and  life  is  so  short  and  in- 
secure that  I  would  not  hurry  away  from  any  pleasure — no, 
not  even  from  so  mild  a  one  as  this.  We  should  rather 
cling,  cling  to  what  little  we  can  get,  like  a  man  at  a  cliff's 
edge.  Every  second  is  a  cliff,  if  you  think  upon  it — a  cliff 
a  mile  high — high  enough,  if  we  fall,  to  dash  us  out  of 
every  feature  of  humanity.  Hence  it  is  best  to  talk  pleas- 
antly. Let  us  talk  of  each  other;  why  should  we  wear  this 
mask?  Let  us  be  confidential.  Who  knows,  we  might  be- 
come friends  ?  " 

"  I  have  just  one  word  to  say  to  you,"  said  the  dealer. 
"  Either  make  your  purchase,  or  walk  out  of  my  shop." 

"  True,  true,"  said  Markheim.  "  Enough  fooling.  To 
business.     Show  me  something  else." 

The  dealer  stooped  once  more,  this  time  to  replace  the 
glass  upon  the  shelf,  his  thin  blond  hair  fallings  over  his  eyes 


44^      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

as  he  did  so.  Markheim  moved  a  little  nearer,  with  one 
hand  in  the  pocket  of  his  greatcoat;  he  drew  himself  up  and 
filled  his  lungs;  at  the  same  time  many  different  emotions 
were  depicted  together  on  his  face — terror,  horror,  and  re- 
solve, fascination  and  a  physical  repulsion;  and  through  a 
haggard  lift  of  his  upper  lip,  his  teeth  looked  out. 

"  This,  perhaps,  may  suit,"  observed  the  dealer;  and  then, 
as  he  began  to  rearise,  Markheim  bounded  from  behind  upon 
his  victim.  The  long,  skewerlike  dagger  flashed  and  fell. 
The  dealer  struggled  like  a  hen,  striking  his  temple  on  the 
shelf,  and  then  tumbled  on  the  floor  in  a  heap. 

Time  had  some  score  of  small  voices  in  that  shop,  some 
stately  and  slow  as  was  becoming  to  their  great  age;  others 
garrulous  and  hurried.  All  these  told  out  the  seconds  in  an 
intricate  chorus  of  tickings.  Then  the  passage  of  a  lad's 
feet,  heavily  running  on  the  pavement,  broke  in  upon  these 
smaller  voices  and  startled  Markheim  into  the  consciousness 
of  his  surroundings;  He  looked  about  him  awfully.  The 
candle  stood  on  the  counter,  its  flame  solemnly  wagging  in  a 
draught;  and  by  that  inconsiderable  movement,  the  whole 
room  was  filled  with  noiseless  bustle  and  kept  heaving  like 
a  sea :  the  tall  shadows  nodding,  the  gross  blots  of  darkness 
swelling  and  dwindling  as  with  respiration,  the  faces  of  the 
portraits  and  the  china  gods  changing  and  wavering  like 
images  in  water.  The  inner  door  stood  ajar,  and  peered  into 
that  leaguer  of  shadows  with  a  long  slit  of  daylight  like  a 
pointing  finger. 

From  these  fear-stricken  rovings,  Markheim's  eyes  re- 
turned to  the  body  of  his  victim,  where  it  lay  both  humped 
and  sprawling,  incredibly  small  and  strangely  meaner  than 
in  life.  In  these  poor,  miserly  clothes,  in  that  ungainly  atti- 
tude, the  dealer  lay  like  so  much  sawdust.  Markheim  had 
feared  to  see  it,  and,  lo !  it  was  nothing.  And  yet,  as  he 
gazed,  this  bundle  of  old  clothes  and  pool  of  blood  began  to 
find  eloquent  voices.  There  it  must  lie;  there  was  none  to 
work  the  cunning  hinges  or  direct  the  miracle  of  locomotion 
— there  it  must  lie  till  it  was  found.  Found !  ay,  and  then  ? 
Then  would  this  dead  flesh  lift  up  a  cry  that  would  rihg 
over  England,  and  fill  the  world  with  the  echoes  of  pursuit. 
Ay,  dead  or  not,  this  was  still  the  enemy.  "  Time  was  that 
when  the  brains  were  out/'  he  thought;  and  the  first  worcj 


MARKHEIM    ,  449 

struck  into  his  mind.  Time,  now  that  the  deed  was  accom- 
plished— time,  which  had  closed  for  the  victim,  had  become 
instant  and  momentous  for  the  slayer. 

The  thought  was  yet  in  his  mind,  when,  first  one  and 
then  another,  with  every  variety  of  pace  and  voice — one  deep 
as  the  bell  from  a  cathedral  turret,  another  ringing  on  its 
treble  notes  the  prelude  of  a  waltz — the  clocks  began  to  strike 
the  hour  of  three  in  the  afternoon. 

The 'sudden  outbreak  of  so  many  tongues  in  that  dumb 
chamber  staggered  him.  He  began  to  bestir  himself,  going 
to  and  fro  with  the  candle,  beleaguered  by  moving  shadows, 
and  startled  to  the  soul  by  chance  reflections.  In  many  rich 
mirrors,  some  of  home  designs,  some  from  Venice  or  Amster- 
dam, he  saw  his  face  repeated  and  repeated,  as  it  were  an 
army  of  spies;  his  own  eyes  met  and  detected  him;  and  the 
sound  of  his  own  steps,  lightly  as  they  fell,  vexed  the  sur- 
rounding quiet.  And  still  as  he  continued  to  fill  his  pockets, 
his  mind  accused  him,  with  a  sickening  iteration,  of  the 
thousand  faults  of  his  design.  He  should  have  chosen  a  more 
quiet  hour ;  he  should  have  prepared  an  alibi ;  he  should  not 
have  used  a  knife;  he  should  have  been  more  cautious,  and 
only  bound  and  gagged  the  dealer,  and  not  killed  him;  he 
should  have  been  more  bold,  and  killed  the  servant  also;  he 
should  have  done  all  things  otherwise;  poignant  regrets, 
weary,  incessant  toiling  of  the  mind  to  change  what  was  un- 
changeable, to  plan  what  was  now  useless,  to  be  the  architect 
of  the  irrevocable  past.  Meanwhile,  and  behind  all  this  activ- 
ity, brute  terrors,  like  the  scurrying  of  rats  in  a  deserted  attic, 
filled  the  more  remote  chambers  of  his  brain  with  riot;  the 
hand  of  the  constable  would  fall  heavy  on  his  shoulder,  and 
his  nerves  would  jerk  like  a  hooked  fish ;  or  he  beheld,  in 
galloping  defile,  the  dock,  the  prison,  the  gallows,  and  the 
black  coffin. 

Terror  of  the  people  in  the  street  sat  down  before  his 
mind  like  a  besieging  army.  It  was  impossible,  he  thought, 
but  that  some  rumour  of  the  struggle  must  have  reached 
their  ears  and  set  on  edge  their  curiosity;  and  now,  in  all 
the  neighbouring  houses,  he  divined  them  sitting  motionless 
and  with  uplifted  ear — solitary  people,  condemned  to  spend 
Christmas  dwelling  alone  on  memories  of  the  past,  and  now 
startingly  recalled  from  that  tender  exercise;  happy  family 


450     THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

parties,  struck  into  silence  round  the  table,  the  mother  still 
with  raised  finger :  every  degree  and  age  and  humour,  but  all, 
by  their  own  hearths,  prying  and  hearkening  and  weaving 
the  rope  that  was  to  hang  him.  Sometimes  it  seemed  to  him 
he  could  not  move  too  softly ;  the  clink  of  the  tall  Bohemian 
goblets  rang  out  loudly  like  a  bell ;  and  alarmed  by  the  big- 
ness of  the  ticking,  he  was  tempted  to  stop  the  clocks.  And 
then,  again,  with  a  swift  transition  of  his  terrors,  the  very 
silence  of  the  place  appeared  a  source  of  peril,  and  a  thing 
to  strike  and  freeze  the  passer-by;  and  he  would  step  more 
boldly,  and  bustle  aloud  among  the  contents  of  the  shop,  and 
imitate,  with  elaborate  bravado,  the  movements  of  a  busy 
man  at  ease  in  his  own  house. 

But  he  was  now  so  pulled  about  by  different  alarms  that, 
while  one  portion  of  his  mind  was  still  alert  and  cunning, 
another  trembled  on  the  brink  of  lunacy.  One  hallucination 
in  particular  took  a  strong  hold  on  his  credulity.  The  neigh- 
bour hearkening  with  white  face  beside  his  window,  the 
passer-by  arrested  by  a  horrible  surmise  on  the  pavement — 
these  could  at  worst  suspect,  they  could  not  know;  through 
the  brick  walls  and  shuttered  windows  only  sounds  could 
penetrate.  But  here,  within  the  house,  was  he  alone?  He 
knew  he  was;  he  had  watched  the  servant  set  forth  sweet- 
hearting,  in  her  poor  best,  "  out  for  the  day  "  written  in  every 
ribbon  and  smile.  Yes,  he  was  alone,  of  course;  and  yet,  in 
the  bulk  of  empty  house  about  him,  he  could  surely  hear  a 
stir  of  delicate  footing — he  was  surely  conscious,  inexplicably 
conscious  of  some  presence.  Ay,  surely;  to  every  room  and 
corner  of  the  house  his  imagination  followed  it ;  and  now  it 
was  a  faceless  thing,  and  yet  had  eyes  to  see  with ;  and  again 
it  was  a  shadow  of  himself;  and  yet  again  behold  the  image 
of  the  dead  dealer,  reinspired  with  cunning  and  hatred. 

At  times,  with  a  strong  effort,  he  would  glance  at  the  open 
door  which  still  seemed  to  repel  his  eyes.  The  house  was 
tall,  the  skylight  small  and  dirty,  the  day  blind  with  fog;  and 
the  light  that  filtered  down  to  the  ground  story  was  exceed- 
ingly faint,  and  showed  dimly  on  the  threshold  of  the  shop. 
And  yet,  in  that  strip  of  doubtful  brightness,  did  there  not 
hang  wavering  a  shadow? 

Suddenly,  from  the  street  outside,  a  very  jovial  gentle- 
man began  to  beat  with  a  staff  on  the  shop-door,  accompany- 


MARKHEIM  45 1 

ing  his  blows  with  shouts  and  railleries  in  which  the  dealer 
was  continually  called  upon  by  name.  Markheim,  smitten  into 
ice,  glanced  at  the  dead  man.  But  no !  he  lay  quite  still ;  he 
was  fled  away  far  beyond  ear-shot  of  these  blows  and  shout- 
ings; he  was  sunk  beneath  seas  of  silence;  and  his  name, 
which  would  once  have  caught  his  notice  above  the  howling 
of  a  storm,  had  become  an  empty  sound.  And  presently  the 
jovial  gentleman  desisted  from  his  knocking  and  departed. 

Here  was  a  broad  hint  to  hurry  what  remained  to  be 
done,  to  get  forth  from  this  accusing  neighbourhood,  to 
plunge  into  a  path  of  London  multitudes,  and  to  reach,  on  the 
other  side  of  day,  that  haven  of  safety  and  apparent  inno- 
cence— his  bed.  One  visitor  had  come:  at  any  moment  an- 
other might  follow  and  be  more  obstinate.  To  have  done 
the  deed,  and  yet  not  to  reap  the  profit,  would  be  too  abhor- 
rent a  failure.  The  money,  that  was  now  Markheim's  con- 
cern ;  and  as  a  means  to  that,  the  keys. 

He  glanced  over  his  shoulder  at  the  open  door,  where 
the  shadow  was  still  lingering  and  shivering;  and  with  no 
conscious  repugnance  of  the  mind,  yet  with  a  tremor  of  the 
belly,  he  drew  near  the  body  of  his  victim.  The  human 
character  had  quite  departed.  Like  a  suit  half-stuffed  with 
bran,  the  limbs  lay  scattered,  the  trunk  doubled,  on  the  floor ; 
and  yet  the  thing  repelled  him.  Although  so  dingy  and 
inconsiderable  to  the  eye,  he  feared  it  might  have  more  sig- 
nificance to  the  touch.  He  took  the  body  by  the  shoulders, 
and  turned  it  on  its  back.  It  was  strangely  light  and  supple, 
and  the  limbs,  as  if  they  had  been  broken,  fell  into  the  oddest 
postures.  The  face  was  robbed  of  all  expression ;  but  it  was 
as  pale  as  wax,  and  shockingly  smeared  with  blood  about  one 
temple.  That  was,  for  Markheim,  the  one  displeasing  cir- 
cumstance. It  carried  him  back,  upon  the  instant,  to  a  cer- 
tain fair  day  in  a  fishers'  village :  a  gray  day,  a  piping  wind, 
a  crowd  upon  the  street,  the  blare  of  brasses,  the  booming  of 
drums,  the  nasal  voice  of  a  ballad-singer;  and  a  boy  going 
to  and  fro,  buried  over  head  in  the  crowd  and  divided  be- 
tween interest  and  fear,  until,  coming  out  upon  the  chief  place 
of  concourse,  he  beheld  a  booth  and  a  great  screen  with  pic- 
tures, dismally  designed,  garishly  coloured:  Brownrigg  with 
her  apprentice;  the  Mannings  with  their  murdered  guest; 
Weare  in  the  death-grip  of  Thurtell ;  and  a  score  besides  of 


452  THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

famous  crimes.  The  thing  was  as  clear  as  an  illusion;  he 
was  once  again  that  little  boy;  he  was  looking  once  again, 
and  with  the  same  sense  of  physical  revolt,  at  these  vile 
pictures ;  he  was  still  stunned  by  the  thumping  of  the  drums. 
A  bar  of  that  day's  music  returned  upon  his  memory;  and 
at  that,  for  the  first  time,  a  qualm  came  over  him,  a  breath 
of  nausea,  a  sudden  weakness  of  the  joints,  which  he  must 
instantly  resist  and  conquer. 

He  judged  it  more  prudent  to  confront  than  to  flee  from 
these  considerations;  looking  the  more  hardily  in  the  dead 
face,  bending  his  mind  to  realise  the  nature  and  greatness 
of  his  crime.  So  little  a  while  ago  that  face  had  moved  with 
every  change  of  sentiment,  that  pale  mouth  had  spoken,  that 
body  had  been  all  on  fire  with  governable  energies ;  and  now, 
and  by  his  act,  that  piece  of  life  had  been  arrested,  as  the 
horologist,  with  interjected  finger,  arrests  the  beating  of  the 
clock.  So  he  reasoned  in  vain ;  he  could  rise  to  no  more  re- 
morseful consciousness ;  the  same  heart  which  had  shuddered 
before  the  painted  effigies  of  crime,  looked  on  its  reality 
unmoved.  At  best,  he  felt  a  gleam  of  pity  for  one  who  had 
been  endowed  in  vain  with  all  those  faculties  that  can  make 
the  world  a  garden  of  enchantment,  one  who  had  never 
lived  and  who  was  now  dead.  But  of  penitence,  no,  not  a 
tremor. 

With  that,  shaking  himself  clear  of  these  considerations, 
he  found  the  keys  and  advanced  towards  the  open  door  of 
the  shop.  Outside,  it  had  begun  to  rain  smartly;  and  the 
sound  of  the  shower  upon  the  roof  had  banished  silence. 
Like  some  dripping  cavern,  the  chambers  of  the  house  were 
haunted  by  an  incessant  echoing,  which  filled  the  ear  and 
mingled  with  the  ticking  of  the  clocks.  And,  as  Markheim 
approached  the  door,  he  seemed  to  hear,  in  answer  to  his 
own  cautious  tread,  the  steps  of  another  foot  withdrawing 
up  the  stair.  The  shadow  still  palpitated  loosely  on  the 
threshold.  He  threw  a  ton's  weight  of  resolve  upon  his  mus- 
cles, and  drew  back  the  door. 

The  faint,  foggy  daylight  glimmered  dimly  on  the  bare 
floor  and  stairs ;  on  the  bright  suit  of  armour  posted,  halbert 
in  hand,  upon  the  landing;  and  on  the  dark  wood-carvings, 
and  framed  pictures  that  hung  against  the  yellow  panels  of 
the  wainscot.     So  loud  was  the  beating  of  the  rain  through 


MARKHEIM  453 

all  the  house  that,  in  Markheim's  ears,  it  began  to  be  distin- 
guished into  many  different  sounds.  Footsteps  and  sighs,  the 
tread  of  regiments  marching  in  the  distance,  the  chink  of 
money  in  the  counting,  and  the  creaking  of  doors  held  stealth- 
ily ajar,  appeared  to  mingle  with  the  patter  of  the  drops  upon 
the  cupola  and  the  gushing  of  the  water  in  the  pipes.  The 
sense  that  he  was  not  alone  grew  upon  him  to  the  verge  of 
madnessi  On  every  side  he  was  haunted  and  begirt  by  pres- 
ences. He  heard  them  moving  in  the  upper  chambers ;  from 
the  shop,  he  heard  the  dead  man  getting  to  his  legs ;  and  as 
he  began  with  a  great  effort  to  mount  the  stairs,  feet  fled 
quietly  before  him  and  followed  stealthily  behind.  If  he  were 
but  deaf,  he-  thought,  how  tranquilly  he  would  possess  his 
soul !  And  then  again,  and  hearkening  with  ever  fresh  atten- 
tion, he  blessed  himself  for  that  unresting  sense  which  held 
the  outposts  and  stood  a  trusty  sentinel  upon  his  life.  His 
head  turned  continually  on  his  neck ;  his  eyes,  which  seemed 
starting  from  their  orbits,  scouted  on  every  side,  and  on 
every  side  were  half-rewarded  as  with  the  tail  of  something 
nameless  vanishing.  The  four-and-twenty  steps  to  the  first 
floor  were  four-and-twenty  agonies. 

On  that  first  story,  the  doors  stood  ajar,  three  of  them 
like  three  ambushes,  shaking  his  nerves  like  the  throats  of 
cannon.  He  could  never  again,  he  felt,  be  sufficiently  im- 
mured and  fortified  from  men's  observing  eyes ;  he  longed  to 
be  home,  girt  in  by  walls,  buried  among  bedclothes,  and  in- 
visible to  all  but  God.  And  at  that  thought  he  wondered 
a  little,  recollecting  tales  of  other  murderers  and  the  fear 
they  were  said  to  entertain  of  heavenly  avengers.  It  was  not 
so,  at  least,  with  him.  He  feared  the  Jaws  of  nature,  lest,  in 
their  callous  and  immutable  procedure,  they  should  preserve 
some  damning  evidence  of  his  crime.  He  feared  tenfold 
more,  with  a  slavish,  superstitious  terror,  some  scission  in  the 
continuity  of  man's  experience,  some  wilful  illegality  of  na- 
ture. He  played  a  game  of  skill,  depending  on  the  rules,  cal- 
culating consequence  from  cause;  and  what  if  nature,  as  the 
defeated  tyrant  overthrew  the  chess-board,  should  break  the 
mould  of  their  succession?  The  like  had  befallen  Napoleon 
(so  writers  said)  when  the  winter  changed  the  time  of  its 
appearance.  The  like  might  befall  Markheim :  the  solid  walls 
might  become  transparent  and  reveal  his  doings  like  those  of 


454     THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

bees  in  a  glass  hive;  the  stout  planks  might  yield  under  his 
foot  like  quicksands  and  detain  him  in  their  clutch ;  ay,  and 
there  were  soberer  accidents  that  might  destroy  him :  if,  for 
instance,  the  house  should  fall  and  imprison  him  beside  the 
body  of  his  victim ;  or  the  house  next  door  should  fly  on  fire, 
and  the  firemen  invade  him  from  all  sides.  These  things  he 
feared;  and,  in  a  sense,  these  things  might  be  called  the 
hands  of  God  reached  forth  against  sin.  But  about  God 
himself  he  was  at  ease;  his  act  was  doubtless  exceptional, 
but  so  were  his  excuses,  which  God  knew ;  it  was  there,  and 
not  among  men,  that  he  felt  sure  of  justice. 

When  he  had  got  safe  into  the  drawing-room,  and  shut 
the  door  behind  him,  he  was  aware  of  a  respite  from  alarms. 
The  room  was  quite  dismantled,  uncarpcted  besides,  and 
strewn  with  packing-cases  and  incongruous  furniture;  sev- 
eral great  pier-glasses,  in  which  he  beheld  himself  at  various 
angles,  like  an  actor  on  a  stage;  many  pictures,  framed  and 
unframed,  standing,  with  their  faces  to  the  wall ;  a  fine  Shera- 
ton sideboard,  a  cabinet  of  marquetry,  and  a  great  old  bed, 
with  tapestry  hangings.  The  windows  opened  to  the  floor; 
but  by  great  good  fortune  the  lower  part  of  the  shutters  had 
been  closed,  and  this  concealed  him  from  the  neighbours. 
Here,  then,  Markheim  drew  in  a  packing-case  before  the 
cabinet,  and  began  to  search  among  the  keys.  It  was  a  long 
business,  for  there  were  many;  and  it  was  irksome,  besides; 
for,  after  all,  there  might  be  nothing  in  the  cabinet,  and  time 
was  on  the  wing.  But  the  closeness  of  the  occupation  sobered 
him.  With  the  tail  of  his  eye  he  saw  the  door — even  glanced 
at  it  from  time  to  time  directly,  like  a  besieged  commander 
pleased  to  verify  the  good  estate  of  his  defences.  But  in 
truth  he  was  at  pe'ace.  The  rain  falling  in  the  street 
sounded  natural  and  pleasant.  Presently,  on  the  other  side, 
the  notes  of  a  piano  were  wakened  to  the  music  of  a  hymn, 
and  the  voices  of  many  children  took  up  the  air  and  words. 
How  stately,  how  comfortable  was  the  melody !  How  fresh 
the  youthful  voices !  Markheim  gave  ear  to  it  smilingly,  as 
he  sorted  out  the  keys;  and  his  mind  was  thronged  with 
answerable  ideas  and  images ;  church-going  children  and  the 
pealing  of  the  high  organ ;  children  afield,  bathers  by  the 
brookside,  ramblers  on  the  brambly  common,  kite-flyers  in  the 
windy  and  cloud-navigated  sky;  and  then,  at  another  cadence 


MARKHEIM  455 

of  the  hymn,  back  again  to  church,  and  the  somnolence  of 
summer  Sundays,  and  the  high  genteel  voice  of  the  parson 
(which  he  smiled  a  little  to  recall)  and  the  painted  Jacobean 
tombs,  and  the  dim  lettering  of  the  Ten  Commandments  in 
the  chancel. 

And  as  he  sat  thus,  at  once  busy  and  absent,  he  was 
startled  to  his  feet.  A  flash  of  ice,  a  flash  of  fire,  a  bursting 
gush  of  blood,  went  over  him,  and  then  he  stood  transfixed 
and  thrilling.  A  step  mounted  the  stair  slowly  and  steadily, 
and  presently  a  hand  was  laid  upon  the  knob,  and  tlie  lock 
clicked,  and  the  door  opened. 

Fear  held  Markheim  in  a  vice.  What  to  expect  he  knew 
not,  whether  the  dead  man  walking,  or  the  official  ministers 
of  human  justice,  or  some  chance  witness  blindly  stumbling 
in  to  consign  him  to  the  gallows.  But  when  a  face  was  thrust 
into  the  aperture,  glanced  round  the  room,  looked  at  him, 
nodded  and  smiled  as  if  in  friendly  recognition,  and  then 
withdrew  again,  and  the  door  closed  behind  it,  his  fear  broke 
loose  from  his  control  in  a  hoarse  cry.  At  the  sound  of  this 
the  visitant  returned. 

"  Did  you  call  me  ?  "  he  asked,  pleasantly,  and  with  that 
he  entered  the  room  and  closed  the  door  behind  him. 

Markheim  stood  and  gazed  at  him  with  all  his  eyes. 
Perhaps  there  was  a  film  upon  his  sight,  but  the  outlines  of 
the  newcomer  seemed  to  change  and  waver  like  those  of  the 
idols  in  the  wavering  candle-light  of  the  shop ;  and  at  times 
he  thought  he  knew  him ;  and  at  times  he  thought  he  bore  a 
likeness  to  himself;  and  always,  like  a  lump  of  living  terror, 
there  lay  in  his  bosom  the  conviction  that  this  thing  was  not 
of  the  earth  and  not  of  God. 

And  yet  the  creature  had  a  strange  air  of  the  common- 
place, as  he  stood  looking  on  Markheim  with  a  smile;  and 
when  he  added :  "  You  are  looking  for  the  money,  I  believe  ?  " 
it  was  in  the  tones  of  every-day  politeness. 

Markheim  made  no  answer. 

"  I  should  warn  you,"  resumed  the  other,  "  that  the  maid 
has  left  her  sweetheart  earlier  than  usual  and  will  soon  be 
here.  If  Mr.  Markheim  be  found  in  this  house,  I  need  not 
describe  to  him  the  consequences." 

"You  know  me?"  cried  the  murderer. 

The  visitor  smiled.    "  You  have  long  been  a  favourite  of 


45 6      THE  BOOK  OF.  THE  SHORT  STORY 

mine,"  he  said ;  "  and  I  have  long  observed  and  often  sought 
to  help  you." 

"  What  are  you  ?  "  cried  Markheim :  "  the  devil  ?  " 

"  What  I  may  be,"  returned  the  other,  "  cannot  affect  the 
service  I  propose  to  render  you." 

"  It  can,"  cried  Markheim;  "  it  does  !  Be  helped  by  you? 
No,  never ;  not  by  you !  You  do  not  know  me  yet ;  thank 
God,  you  do  not  know  me !  " 

"  I  know  you,"  replied  the  visitant,  with  a  sort  of  kind 
severity  or  rather  firmness.     "  I  know  you  to  the  soul." 

"  Know  me  !  "  cried  Markheim.  "  Who  can  do  so  ?  My 
life  is  but  a  travesty  and  slander  on  myself.  I  have  lived  to 
belie  my  nature.  All  men  do;  all  men  are  better  than  this 
disguise  that  grows  about  and  stifles  them.  You  see  each 
dragged  away  by  life,  like  one  whom  bravos  have  seized  and 
muffled  in  a  cloak.  If  they  had  their  own  control — if  you 
could  see  their  faces,  they  would  be  altogether  different, 
they  would  shine  out  for  heroes  and  saints !  I  am  worse 
than  most;  myself  is  more  overlaid;  my  excuse  is  known 
to  me  and  God.  But,  had  I  the  time,  I  could  disclose 
myself." 

"  To  me  ?  "  inquired  the  visitant. 

"  To  you  before  all,"  returned  the  murderer.  "  I  sup- 
posed you  were  intelligent.  I  thought — since  you  exist — you 
would  prove  a  reader  of  the  heart.  And  yet  you  would  pro- 
pose to  judge  me  by  my  acts!  Think  of  it;  my  acts!  I 
was  born  and  I  have  lived  in  a  land  of  giants;  giants  have 
dragged  me  by  the  wrists  since  I  was  born  out  of  my  mother 
— the  giants  of  circumstance.  And  you  would  judge  me  by 
my  acts  I  But  can  you  not  look  within  ?  Can  you  not  under- 
stand that  evil  is  hateful  to  me?  Can  you  not  see  within 
me  the  clear  writing  of  conscience,  never  blurred  by  any 
wilful  sophistry,  although  too  often  disregarded?  Can  you 
not  read  me  for  a  thing  that  surely  must  be  common  as 
Jiumanity — the  unwilling  sinner?" 

■**  All  this  is  very  feelingly  expressed,"  was  the  reply,  "but 
it  regards  me  not.  These  points  of  consistency  are  beyond 
my  province,  and  I  care  not  in  the  least  by  what  compulsion 
you  may  have  been  dragged  away,  so  as  you  are  but  carried 
in  the  right  direction.  But  time  flies;  the  servant  delays, 
looking  in  the  faces  of  the  crowd  and  at  the  pictures  on  the 


MARKHEIM  457 

hoardings,  but  still  she  keeps  moving  nearer;  and  remem- 
ber, it  is  as  if  the  gallows  itself  were  striding  towards  you 
through  the  Christmas  streets !  Shall  I  help  you ;  I,  who 
know  all  ?    Shall  I  tell  you  where  to  find  the  money  ?  " 

"  For  what  price  ?  "  asked  Markheim. 

"  I  offer  you  the  service  for  a  Christmas  gift,"  returned 
the  other. 

Markheim  could  not  refrain  from  smiling  with  a  kind  of 
bitter  triumph.  "  No/'  said  he,  "  I  will  take  nothing  at  your 
hands;  if  I  were  dying  of  thirst,  and  it  was  your  hand  that 
put  the  pitcher  to  my  lips,  I  should  find  the  courage  to  refuse. 
It  may  be  credulous,  but  I  will  do  nothing  to  commit  myself 
to  evil." 

"  I  have  no  objection  to  a  death-bed  repentance,"  ob- 
served the  visitant. 

"  Because  you  disbelieve  their  efficacy ! "  Markheim 
cried. 

"  I  do  not  say  so,"  returned  the  other ;  "  but  I  look  on 
these  things  from  a  different  side,  and  when  the  life  is  done 
my  interest  falls.  The  man  has  lived  to  serve  me,  to  spread 
black  looks  under  colour  of  religion,  or  to  sow  tares  in  the 
wheat-field,  as  you  do,  in  a  course  of  weak  compliance  with 
desire.  Now  that  he  draws  so  near  to  his  deliverance,  he  can 
add  but  one  act  of  service — to  repent,  to  die  smiling,  and 
thus  to  build  up  in  confidence  and  hope  the  more  timorous 
of  my  surviving  followers.  I  am  not  so  hard  a  master.  Try 
me.  Accept  my  help.  Please  yourself  in  life  as  you  have 
done  hitherto;  please  yourself  more  amply,  spread  your 
elbows  at  the  board;  and  when  the  night  begins  to  fall  and 
the  curtains  to  be  drawn,  I  tell  you,  for  your  greater  comfort, 
that  you  will  find  it  even  easy  to  compound  your  quarrel  with 
your  conscience,  and  to  make  a  truckling  peace  with  God. 
I  came  but  now  from  such  a  death-bed,  and  the  room  was 
full  of  sincere  mourners,  listening  to  the  man's  last  words: 
and  when  I  looked  into  that  face,  which  had  been  set  as  a 
flint  against  mercy,  I  found  it  smiling  with  hope." 

"  And  do  you,  then,  suppose  me  such  a  creature  ?  "  asked 
Markheim.  "  Do  you  think  I  have  no  more  generous  aspira- 
tions than  to  sin,  and  sin,  and  sin,  and,  at  last,  sneak  into 
heaven?  My  heart  rises  at  the  thought.  Is  this,  then,  your 
experience  of  mankind?  or  is  it  because  you  find  me  with  red 
30 


45 S      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

hands  that  you  presume  such  baseness?  and  is  this  crime  of 
murder  indeed  so  impious  as  to  dry  up  the  very  springs  of 
good?" 

"  Murder  is  to  me  no  special  category,"  replied  the  other. 
"  All  sins  are  murder,  even  as  all  life  is  war.  I  behold  your 
race,  like  starving  mariners  on  a  raft,  plucking  crusts  out  of 
the  hands  of  famine  and  feeding  on  each  other's  lives.  I  fol- 
low sins  beyond  the  moment  of  their  acting ;  I  find  in  all  that 
the  last  consequence  is  death ;  and  to  my  eyes,  the  pretty 
maid  who  thwarts  her  mother  with  such  taking  graces  on  a 
question  of  a  ball,  drips  no  less  visibly  with  human  gore  than 
such  a  murderer  as  yourself.  Do  I  say  that  I  follow  sins  ?  I 
follow  virtues  also;  they  dififer  not  by  the  thickness  of  a 
nail,  they  are  both  scythes  for  the  reaping  angel  of  Death. 
Evil,  for  which  I  live,  consists  not  in  action,  but  in  character. 
The  bad  man  is  dear  to  me ;  not  the  bad  act,  whose  fruits,  if 
we  could  follow  them  far  enough  down  the  hurtling  cataract 
of  the  ages,  might  yet  be  found  more  blessed  than  those  of 
the  rarest  virtues.  And  it  is  not  because  you  have  killed  a 
dealer,  but  because  you  are  Markheim,  that  I  offered  to  for- 
ward your  escape." 

"  I  will  lay  my  heart  open  to  you,"  answered  Markheim. 
"  This  crime  on  which  you  find  me  is  my  last.  On  my  way 
to  it  I  have  learned  many  lessons;  itself  is  a  lesson,  a  mo- 
mentous lesson.  Hitherto  I  have  been  driven  with  revolt  to 
what  I  would  not ;  I  was  a  bond-slave  to  poverty,  driven  and 
scourged.  There  are  robust  virtues  that  can  stand  in  these 
temptations ;  mine  was  not  so :  I  had  a  thirst  of  pleasure.  But 
to-day,  and  out  of  this  deed,  I  pluck  both  warning  and  riches 
— both  the  power  and  a  fresh  resolve  to  be  myself.  I  become 
in  all  things  a  free  actor  in  the  world;  I  begin  to  see  myself 
all  changed,  these  hands  the  agents  of  good,  this  heart  at 
peace.  Something  comes  over  me  out  of  the  past ;  something 
of  what  I  have  dreamed  on  Sabbath  evenings  to  the  sound 
of  the  church  organ,  of  what  I  forecast  when  I  shed  tears 
over  noble  books,  or  talked,  an  innocent  child,  with  my 
mother.  There  lies  my  life;  I  have  wandered  a  few  years, 
but  now  I  see  once  more  my  city  of  destination." 

"  You  are  to  use  this  money  on  the  Stock  Exchange,  I 
think?"  remarked  the  visitor;  "and  there,  if  I  mistake  not, 
you  have  already  lost  some  thousands?" 


Markheim  459 

"  Ah,"  said  Markheim,  "  but  this  time  I  have  a  sure 
thing." 

"  This  time,  again,  you  will  lose,"  replied  the  visitor 
quietly. 

"  Ah,  but  I  keep  back  the  half !  "  cried  Markheim. 

"  That  also  you  will  lose,"  said  the  other. 

The  sweat  started  upon  Markheim's  brow.  "  Well,  then, 
what  matter  ?  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Say  it  be  lost,  say  I  am 
plunged  again  in  poverty,  shall  one  part  of  me,  and  that  the 
'worse,  continue  until  the  end  to  override  the  better?  Evil 
and  good  run  strong  in  me,  haling  me  both  ways.  I  do  not 
love  the  one  thing,  I  love  all.  I  can  conceive  great  deeds, 
renunciations,  martyrdoms ;  and  though  I  be  fallen  to  such  a 
crime  as  murder,  pity  is  no  stranger  to  my  thoughts.  I  pity 
the  poor;  who  knows  their  trials  better  than  myself?  I  pity 
and  help  them;  I  prize  love,  I  love  honest  laughter;  there  is 
no  good  thing  nor  true  thing  on  earth  but  I  love  it  from  my 
heart.  And  are  my  vices  only  to  direct  my  life,  and  my  vir- 
tues to  lie  without  effect,  like  some  passive  lumber  of  the 
mind?    Not  so;  good,  also,  is  a  spring  of  acts." 

But  the  visitant  raised  his  finger.  "  For  six-and-thirty 
years  that  you  have  been  in  this  world,"  said  he,  "  through 
many  changes  of  fortune  and  varieties  of  humour,  I  have 
watched  you  steadily  fall.  Fifteen  years  ago  you  would  have 
started  at  a  theft.  Three  years  back  you  would  have  blenched 
at  the  name  of  murder.  Is  there  any  crime,  is  there  any 
cruelty  or  meanness,  from  which  you  still  recoil  ? — five  years 
from  now  I  shall  detect  you  in  the  fact !  Downward,  down- 
ward, lies  your  way;  nor  can  anything  but  death  avail  to 
stop  you." 

"  It  is  true,"  Markheim  said  huskily,  "  I  have  in  some 
degree  complied  with  evil.  But  it  is  so  with  all :  the  very 
saints,  in  the  mere  exercise  of  living,  grow  less  dainty,  and 
take  on  the  tone  of  their  surroundings." 

"  I  will  propound  to  you  one  simple  question,"  said  the 
other ;  "  and  as  you  answer,  I  shall  read  to  you  your  moral 
horoscope.  You  have  grown  in  many  things  more  lax ;  pos- 
sibly you  do  right  to  be  so ;  and  at  any  account,  it  is  the  same 
with  all  men.  But  granting  that,  are  you  in  any  one  par- 
ticular, however  trifling,  more  diificult  to  please  with  your 
own  conduct,  or  do  you  go  in  all  things  with  a  looser  rein?" 


4^0  TiiE  BOOIC  Of  tHE  SHORT  STORV 

"  In  any  one  ?  "  repeated  Markheim,  with  an  anguish  of 
consideration.  "  No,"  he  added,  with  despair,  "  in  none !  I 
have  gone  down  in  all." 

"  Then,"  said  the  visitor,  "  content  yourself  with  what  you 
are,  for  you  will  never  change ;  and  the  words  of  your  part 
on  this  stage  are  irrevocably  written  down." 

Markheim  stood  for  a  long  while  silent,  and  indeed  it  was 
the  visitor  who  first  broke  the  silence.  "  That  being  so,"  he 
said,  **  shall  I  show  you  the  money  ?  " 

"  And  grace  ?  "  cried  Markheim. 

"Have  you  not  tried  it?"  returned  the  other.  "Two  or 
three  years  ago,  did  I  not  see  you  on  the  platform  of  revival 
meetings,  and  was  not  your  voice  the  loudest  in  the  hymn  ?  " 

"  It  is  true,"  said  Markheim;  "  and  I  see  clearly  what  re- 
mains for  me  by  way  of  duty.  I  thank  you  for  these  lessons 
from  my  soul ;  my  eyes  are  opened,  and  I  behold  myself  at 
last  for  what  I  am." 

At  this  moment,  the  sharp  note  of  the  door-bell  rang 
through  the  house;  and  the  visitant,  as  though  this  were 
some  concerted  signal  for  which  he  had  been  waiting,  changed 
at  once  in  his  demeanour. 

"  The  maid  !  "  he  cried.  "  She  has  returned,  as  I  fore- 
warned you,  and  there  is  now  before  you  one  more  difficult 
passage.  Her  master,  you  must  say,  is  ill ;  you  must  let  her 
in,  with  an  assured  but  rather  serious  countenance — no  smiles, 
no  overacting,  and  I  promise  you  success !  Once  the  girl 
within,  and  the  door  closed,  the  same  dexterity  that  has 
already  rid  you  of  the  dealer  will  relieve  you  of  this  last 
danger  in  your  path.  Thenceforward  you  have  the  whole 
evening — the  whole  night,  if  needful — to  ransack  the  treas- 
ures of  the  house  and  to  make  good  your  safety.  This  is 
help  that  comes  to  you  with  the  mask  of  danger.  Up !  "  he 
cried :  "  up,  friend ;  your  life  hangs  trembling  in  the  scales : 
up,  and  act !  " 

Markheim  steadily  regarded  his  counsellor.  "  If  I  be 
condemned  to  evil  acts,"  he  said,  "  there  is  still  one  door  of 
freedom  open — I  can  cease  from  action.  If  my  life  be  an  ill 
thing,  I  can  lay  it  down.  Though  I  be,  as  you  say  truly,  at 
the  beck  of  every  small  temptation,  I  can  yet,  by  one  de- 
cisive gesture,  place  myself  beyond  the  reach  of  all.  My 
love  of  good  is  damned  to  barrenness ;  it  may,  and  let  it  be  I 


MARKHEIM  4^1 

But  I  have  still  my  hatred  of  evil;  and  from  that,  to  your 
galling  disappointment,  you  shall  see  that  I  can  draw  both 
energy  and  courage." 

The  features  of  the  visitor  began  to  undergo  a  wonderful 
and  lovely  change :  they  brightened  and  softened  with  a  ten- 
der triumph;  and,  even  as  they  brightened,  faded  and  dis- 
limned.  But  Markheim  did  not  pause  to  watch  or  under- 
stand the  transformation.  He  opened  the  door  and  went 
down-stafirs  very  slowly,  thinking  to  himself.  His  past  went 
soberly  before  him ;  he  beheld  it  as  it  was,  ugly  and  strenuous 
like  a  dream,  random  as  chance-medley — a  scene  of  defeat. 
Life,  as  he  thus  reviewed  it,  tempted  him  no  longer;  but  on 
the  farther  side  he  perceived  a  quiet  haven  for  his  bark.  He 
paused  in  the  passage,  and  looked  into  the  shop,  where  the 
candle  still  burned  by  the  dead  body.  It  was  strangely  silent. 
Thoughts  of  the  dealer  swarmed  into  his  mind,  as  he  stood 
gazing.  And  then  the  bell  once  more  broke  out  into  impa- 
tient clamour. 

He  confronted  the  maid  upon  the  threshold  with  some- 
thing like  a  smile. 

"  You  had  better  go  for  the  police,"  said  he :  "I  have 
killed  your  master." 


A   LIST   OF    REPRESENTATIVE    TALES   AND 
SHORT    STORIES 

>  XVII 

1890    TO    1895: 

L'Inutile  Beaute,  Guy  de  Maupassant  (1890). 

Up  the  Coulee,  Hamlin  Garland  (1890). 

Without  Benefit  of  Clergy,  Rudyard  Kipling  (1890). 

Gallegher,    and    Other    Stories,     Richard    Harding    Davis 

(1891). 

Nouveaux  Pastels,  Paul  Bourget  (1891). 

Life's  Handicap,   Rudyard  Kipling   (1891). 

Main-Travelled  Roads,  Hamlin  Garland   (1891). 

Coeur  Double,  Marcel  Schwob  (1891). 

A  New  England  Nun,  Mary  E.  Wilkins  (1891). 

Short  Sixes,  H.  C.  Bunner  (1891). 

Pages,  Stephane  Mallarme   (1891). 

Troll,  Jonas  Lie    (1891-1892). 

Van  Bibber  and  Others,  Richard  Harding  Davis  (1892). 

The    Adventures    of    Sherlock    Holmes,    A.    Conan    Doyle 

(1892). 
Lettres  de  Femmes,  Marcel  Prevost   (1892). 
Cuore,  Edmondo  de  Amicis  (1892). 
A  Group  of   Noble   Dames,   Thomas   Hardy    (1892). 
To  Sterke,  Peter  Egge  (1892). 
Af  Norges  Historic,  Jacob  Hilditch  (1892). 
The  Lesson  of  the  Master,  Henry  James   (1892). 
The  Beach  of  Falesa,  R.  L  Stevenson   (1892). 
Noughts  and  Crosses,  A.  T.  Quiller-Couch   (1893). 
The  King  in  Yellow,  Robert  W.  Chambers   (1893). 
The  Memoirs  of  Sherlock  Holmes,  A.  Conan  Doyle  (1893). 
Renunciations,    Frederick   Wedmore    (1893). 
Many  Inventions,  Rudyard  Kipling  (1893). 
The   Real  Thing,  Henry  James    (1893). 
A  Native  of  Winby,  S.  O.  Jewett  (1893). 

463 


464  THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

The  Delectable  Duchy,  A.  T.  Quiller-Couch  (1894). 

The  Upper  Berth,  F.  Marion  Crawford  (1894). 

Nouvelles  Lettres  de  Femmes,  Marcel  Prevost   (1894). 

Contes  Tout  Simples,  Francois  Coppee  (1894). 

English  Episodes,  Frederick  Wedmore  (1894). 

Tales  of  Mean  Streets,  Arthur  Morrison  (1894). 

Life's  Little  Ironies,  Thomas  Hardy  (1894). 

Mrs.  Knollys,  and  Other  Stories,  Frederic  Jessup  Stimson 

(1894). 
In  the  Midst  of  Life,  Ambrose  Bierce  (1894). 
The  Jungle  Books,  Rudyard  Kipling  (1894-1895). 


A  COWARD 


>  A  COWARD 

A  Coward,  by  Guy  de  Maupassant  (1850-1893),  is 
one  of  the  stories  in  the  collection  called  Stories  of  Day 
and  Night  (Contes  du  Jour  et  de  la  Nuit),  published  in 
Paris  in  1885.  The  list  of  Maupassant's  Short  Stories  is 
a  long  one.  His  first  was  Tallow-Ball  (Boule  de  Suif), 
which  appeared  in  1880  in  the  collection  of  stories  by 
different  authors  entitled  Les  Soirees  de  Medan.  Then 
he  published  in  rapid  succession  the  volumes  La  Maison 
Tellier  (1881),  Mademoiselle  Fifi  (1882),  Miss  Harriet 
(1884),  Moonlight  (1884),  Monsieur  Parent  (1886), 
The  Horla  (1887),  etc.;  and  not  a  year  passed  that  he 
did  not  add  one  or  more  volumes  to  the  list  until  his 
death  in  1893. 

Not  even  Flaubert  sought  more  tirelessly  for  the 
phrase  that  just  expresses  and  for  the  inevitable  word 
than  did  his  disciple,  Maupassant.  Says  Arthur  Sy- 
mons :  "  His  appeal  is  genuine,  and  his  skill,  of  its 
kind,  incontestable.  He  attracts,  as  certain  men  do, 
by  a  warm  and  blunt  plausibility.  He  is  so  frank,  and 
seems  so  broad ;  and  is  so  skilful,  and  seems  so 
living.  All  the  exterior  heat  of  life  is  in  his  work; 
and  this  exterior  heat  gives  a  more  immediate  illusion 
of  what  we  call  real  life  than  the  profound  inner  vitality 
of,  let  us  say,  Hawthorne."  Maupassant's  art,  which 
makes  the  steps  of  such  a  story  as  A  Coward  seem  those 
of  an  inevitable  progression,  will  save  his  work  from 
ever  becoming  the  mere  human  document  of  naturalism, 
as  is  the  fiction  of  many  of  the  writers  of  the  naturalistic 
school.     "  We  do  not  know  too  much,"  says  Pellissier, 

467 


468      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

"  of  the  fate  that  will  come  hereafter  to  many  stories  pro- 
duced in  the  nineteenth  century.'  I  mean  even  those  of 
Balzac  or  George  Sand,  of  Zola  or  Alphonse  Daudet. 
But  we  can  now  be  assured  that  among  the  stories  of 
Maupassant  there  are  at  least  twenty  or  thirty  that  will 
not  perish." 

The  present  version  of  A  Coward  is  that  by  George 
Burnham  Ives,  in  the  Maupassant  volume  of  the  Little 
French  Masterpieces  series.    - 

AUTHORITIES : 

Partial  Portraits,  by  Henry  James. 

Guy  de  Maupassant,  by  Arthur  Symons  (Little 
French  Masterpieces  series). 

Preface  to  Pierre  et  Jean,  by  Guy  de  Maupassant. 

History  of  the  French  Language  and  Literature,  by 
Louis  Petit  de  Julleville. 


>  A   COWARD  ^.^ 

He  was  known  in  society  as  "  the  handsome  Signoles." 
His  name  was  Viscount  Gontran  Joseph  de  Signoles. 

An  orphan  and  the  possessor  of  a  sufficient  fortune,  he 
cut  a  dash,  as  they  say.  He  had  style  and  presence,  suffi- 
cient fluency  of  speech  to  make  people  think  him  clever,  a 
certain  natural  grace,  an  air  of  nobility  and  pride,  a  gallant 
mustache  and  a  gentle  eye,  which  the  women  like. 

He  was  in  great  demand  in  the  salons,  much  sought 
after  by  fair  dancers;  and  he  aroused  in  his  own  sex  that 
smiling  animosity  which  they  always  feel  for  men  of  an  en- 
ergetic figure.  He  had  been  suspected  of  several  love-affairs 
well  adapted  to  cause  a  young  bachelor  to  be  much  esteemed. 
He  passed  a  happy,  unconcerned  life,  in  a  comfort  of  mind 
which  was  most  complete.  He  was  known  to  be  a  skilful 
fencer,  and  with  the  pistol  even  more  adept. 

"  If  I  ever  fight  a  duel,"  he  would  say,  "  I  shall  choose 
the  pistol.    With  that  weapon  I  am  sure  of  killing  my  man." 

Now,  one  evening,  when  he  had  accompanied  to  the 
theatre  two  young  lady  friends  of  his,  whose  husbands  also 
were  of  the  party,  he  invited  them,  after  the  play,  to  take 
an  ice  at  Tortoni's.  They  had  been  at  the  cafe  but  a  few 
moments,  when  he  noticed  that  a  man  sitting  at  a  table  near 
by  was  staring"  persistently  at  one  of  his  fair  neighbours. 
She  seemed  annoyed  and  uneasy,  and  lowered  her  eyes.  At 
last  she  said  to  her  husband: 

"  That  man  is  staring  me  out  of  countenance.  I  don't 
know  him ;  do  you  ?  " 

The  husband,  who  had  noticed  nothing,  raised  his  eyes, 
and  answered: 

"  No,  not  at  all." 

The  young  woman  continued,  half  smiling,  half  vexed: 

"It  is  very  unpleasant;  that  man  is  spoiling  my  ice." 

469 


470      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

The  husband  shrugged  his  shoulders: 

"  Pshaw !  don't  pay  any  attention  to  him.  If  we  had  to 
bother  our  heads  about  all  the  impertinent  fellows  we  meet, 
we  should  never  have  done." 

But  the  viscount  had  risen  abruptly.     He  could  not  suf- 
fer that  stranger  to  spoil  an  ice  which  he  had  offered.  Ji^ 
-was  ta  iiim.JiiiU  4he-«#roTrt^Wcts~paid~-s*n€e  it  was  through 
him  and  for  him  that  his  friends  had  entered  the  eafe,  so 
that  the  affair  was  his  concern^  aTTd^-hw-akine. 

He  walked  towards  the  man  and  said  to  him : 

"  You  have  a  way  of  looking  at  those  ladies,  monsieur, 
that  I  cannot  tolerate.  I  beg  you  to  be  so  kind  as  to  stare 
less  persistently." 

The  other  retorted: 

"  You  may  go  to  the  devil !  " 

"  Take  care,  monsieur,"  said  the  viscount,  with  clenched 
teeth ;  "  you  will  force  me  to  pass  bounds." 

The  gentleman  answered  but  one  word,  a  foul  word, 
that  rang  from  one  end  of  the  cafe  to  the  other,  and  caused 
every  guest  to  give  a  sudden  start,  as  if  moved  by  a  hidden 
spring.  Those  whose  backs  were  turned  wheeled  round;  aU_ 
the  others  raised  their  heads  ;„three  waiters  whirled  about 
on  their  heels  like  tops ;  the  two  women  at  the  desk  gave  a'"" 
jump,  then  turned  completely  round,  like  automata  obedient 
to  the  same  crank. 

Profound  silence  ensued.  Suddenly  a  sharp  sound 
cracked  in  the  air.  The  viscount  had  slapped  his  adversary. 
Every  one  rose  to  interfere.  Cards  were  exchanged  between 
ihe  two. 

When  the  viscount  had  returned  to  his  apartment  he 
paced  the  floor  for  several  minutes,  with  great,  quick  strides. 
He  was  too  much  agitated  to  reflect.  A  single  thought 
hovered  over  his  mind — "  a  duel  " — without  arousing  any 
emotion  whatsoever.  He~Tia'd"3oiTe^'What""1ir~-sHo«id-iiave  . 
done;  heTi ad  shown TiTmself  to  be  what  he  ought  to  he.  His 
conduct  would  be  discussed  and  approved;  people  would  con- 
gratulate him.  He  said  aloud,  speaking  as  one  speaks  when 
one's  thoughts  are  in  great  confusion: 

"  What  a  brute  the  fellow  was  !  " 

Then  he  sat  down  and  began  to  consider.    He  must  find 


A  CoWAkD  47i 

seconds,  in  the  morning.  Wliom-^shmiiti-  he-choea*^ — H^* 
thought  over  those  of  his  acquaintances  who  were  the  most 
highly  esteemed  and  the  best-kncwn.  He  decided  at  last 
upon  the  Marquis  de  la  Tour-Noire  and  the  Colonel  Bour- 
.  din — a  great  noble  and  a  soldier — excellent !  Their  names 
would  sound  well  in  the  papers.  He  discovered  that  he  was^ 
•--^fclMrsty,  and  he  drank  three  glasses  of  water  in  rapid  suc- 
cession; then  he  resumed  his  pacing  of  the  floor.  He  felt 
ftrH  of  energy.  If  he  blustered  a  little,  seemed  determined 
to  carry  the  thing  through,  demanded  rigorous  and  danger- 
ous conditions,  insisted  upon  a  serious  duel,  very  serious 
and  terrible,  his  adversary  would  probably  back  down  and 
apologise. 

He  picked  up  the  card,  which  he  had  drawn  from  his 
pocket  and  tossed  on  the  table,  and  read  it  again,  as  he  had 
read  it  in  a  glance  at  the  cafe,  and  again  in  the  cab,  by  the 
glimmer  of  every  street-lamp,  on  his  way  home.  "  Georges 
Lamil,  51  Rue  Moncey."    Nothing  more. 

He  examined  these  assembled  letters,  which  seemed  to 
him  mysterious,  full  of  vague  m€«ti#fTg.  Georges  Lamil! 
Who  was  this  man?  What  was  his  business?  Why  had  he 
stared  at  that  lady  in  such  a  way?  Was  it  not  disgusting 
that  a  stranger,  an  unknown,  should  cause  such  a  change 
in  one's  life,  because  it  had  pleased  him  to  fasten  his  eyes 
insolently  upon  a  lady? 

And  the  viscount  again  exclaimed  aloud : 

"  What  a  brute  !  " 

Then  he  stood  perfectly  still,  thinking,  his  eyes  still  glued 
to  the  card.  There  arose  within  him  a  fierce  anger  against 
that  bit  of  paper — a  malevolent  sort  of  rage,  blended  with 
a  strange  feeling  of  discomfort.  What  a  stupid  business ! 
He  took  a  penknife  that  lay  open  to  his  hand,  and  stuck  it 
through  the  middle  of  the  printed  name,  as  if  he  were  stab- 
bing some  one. 

So  he  must  fight !  Should  he  choose  swords,  or  pistols  ? 
— for  he  deemed  himself  the  insulted  party.  He  ran  less 
risk  with  the  sword;  but  with  the  pistol  he  had  a  chance 
of  making  his  opponent  withdraw.  A  dttel  with  swords  is. 
rarely  fatal,  mutual  prudence  preventing  the  combatants 
from  engaging  near  enough  to  each  other  for  a  point  to  en- 
ter very  deep.    With  the  pistol  his  life  was  seriously  endan- 


472      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

gered ;  but  he  might  in  that  way  come  out  of  the  affair  with 
all  the  honours,  and  without  coming  to  a  meeting. 

"  I  must  be  firm,"  he  said.    "  He  will  be  afraid." 

The  sound  of  his  voice  made  him  tremble,  and  he  looked 
about  him.  He  felt  extremely  nervous.  He  drank  another 
glass  of  water,  then  began  to  undress  for  bed. 

As  soon  as  he  was  in  bed  he  blew  out  the  light  and  shut 
his  eyes. 

He  thought: 

"  I  have  all  day  to-morrow  to  arrange  my  affairs.  I 
must  sleep  now,  so  that  I  may  be  calm." 

He  was  very  warm-uiideji..lllfi,JbiedclQtlies,„i:bot  he  could 
not  manage  to  doze  off.  He  twisted  and  turned,  lay  on  his 
back  five  minutes,  then  changed  to  the  left  side,  then  rolled 
over  on  his  right. 

He  was  still  thirsty.  He  got  up  again,  to  drink.  Then 
a  disquieting  thought  occurred  to  him : 

"  Can  it  be  that  I  am  afraid  ?  " 

Why  did  his  heart  begin  to  beat  wildly  at  every  familiar 
sound  in  the  room?  When  the  clock  was  about  to  strike,  the 
faint  whirring  of  the  spring  making  ready  made  him  jump; 
and  then  he  had  to  keep  his  mouth  open  for  several  seconds 
to  breathe,  the  oppression  was  so  great. 

He  commenced  to  argue  with  himself  concerning  the  pos- 
sibility of  this  thing: 

"Am  I  afraid?" 

No,  of  course  he  was  not  afraid,  as  he  had  determined 
to  carry  the  thing  through,  as  his  mind  was  fully  made  up  to 
fight,  and  not  to  tremble.  But  he  felt  so  profoundly  troubled 
that  he  asked  himself  the  question : 

"Is  it  possible  to  be  afraid  in  spite  of  one's  self?" 

And  that  doubt,  that  disquietude,  that  dread  took  pos- 
session of  him ;  ii-60t»€  -force  stronger  than  his  will,  a  dom-— H 
inating,  irresistible  power  should  conquer  him,  what  would 
happen?  Yes,  what  could  happen?'  He  certainly  would  go 
to  the  ground,  inasmuch  as  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  go 
there..  But  suppose  his  hand  should  tremble?  Suppose  he 
should  faint?  And  he  thought  of  his  position,  of  his  repu- 
tation, of  his  name. 

And  suddenly  a  strange  fancy  seized  him  to  get  up,  i^ 
order  to  look  in  the  mirror.    He  relit  his  candle.    When  he 


A  COWARD  473 

saw  the  reflection  of  his  face  in  the  polished  glass,  he  could 
hardly  recognise  himself^  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  had 
never  seen  this  man  before.  His  eyes  appeared  enormous; 
and  he  was  certainly  pale — yes,  very  pale. 

He  remained  standing  in  front  of  the  mirror.  He  put 
out  bis  tongue  as  if  to  test  the  state  of  his  health,  and  of  a 
sudden  this  thought  burst  into  his  mind  like  a  bullet : 

"  The  day  after  to-morrow,  at  this  time,  I  may  be  dead." 

And  hfs  heart  began  to  beat  furiously  again. 
•  <C-"  The  day  after  to-morrow,  at  this  time,  I  may  be  dead. 
JIhis  person  in  front  of  me,  this  I,  whom  I  am  looking  at  in 
jhis  mirror,  will  be  no  more !  What !  I  am  standing  here, 
looking  at  myself,  conscious  that  I  am  a  living  man;  and 
in  twenty-four  hours  I  shall  be  lying  on  that  bed,  dead,  with 
my  eyes  closed,  cold,  lifeless,  gone !  " 

.He-tunied  towards  the  bed,  and  he  distinctly  saw  him- 
-sdf  lying  on  his  back,  between  the  very  sheets  that  he  had 
-just  left.  He  had  the  hollow  cheeks  that  dead  bodies  have, 
„  and  that  slackness  of  the  hands  that  will  never  stir  more. 

Thereupon  he  conceived  a  fear  of  his  bed,  and,  in  order 
to  avoid  looking  at  it,  passed  into  his  smoking-room.  He 
mechanically  took  a  cigar,  lighted  it,  and  began  to  pace  the 
floor  anew.  He  was  cold;  he  walked  to  the  bell-cord  to 
wake  his  valet;  but  he  stopped,  with  his  hand  half-way  to 
the  cord. 

"  That  fellow  will  see  that  I  am  afraid." 

And  he  did  not   ring,  but  made  the  fire  himself.     His 
hands  trembled  slightly,  with  a  nervous  shudder,  when  they 
touched  anything.     His  htSm  wasin  a  Tvrhtrt;  his  troubled 
thoughts  became  fugitive,  sudden,  melancholy;  a  sort  of  in- 
toxication seized  on  his  spirit  as  if  he  had  been  drunk. 

And  ceaselessly  he  asked  himself : 

"  What  am  I  going  to  do?    What  will  become  of  me?  " 

His  whole  body  quivered,  shaken  by  jerky  tremblings. 
He  got  up,  went  to  the  window,  and  drew  aside  the  curtains. 
The  day  was  breaking,  a  summer's  day.  The- rosy-sky  made 
rosy  the  city,  the  roofs,  and  the  walls.  A  great  burst  of 
light,  like  a  caress  from  the  rising  sun,  enveloped  the 
awaking  world ;  and  with  that  glimmer,  a  sudden,  enlivening, 
brutal  hope  seized  on  the  heart  of  the  viscount.  How  in- 
sane he  was  to  have  allowed  himself  to  be  so  struck  down 
31 


474      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

by  terror,  even  before  anything  was  decided,  before  his  sec- 
onds had  met  those  of  Georges  Lamil,  before  he  knew 
whether  he  was  really  to  fight !  ^^.^^ 

-     .   He  made-hisr-toikt,  dressed  hitnselfr-«iMl  left  the  house 
with  a  firm  step. 

As  he  walked,  he  said  to  himself  again  and  again : 

"  I  must  be  firm,  very  firm.  I  must  prove  that  I  am 
not  afraid." 

His  seconds,  the  marquis  and  the  colonel,  placed  them- 
selves at  his  disposal,  and  after  warmly  shaking  his  hand, 
discussed  the  conditions. 

The  colonel  asked: 

"  Do  you  desire  a  serious  duel  ?  '* 

"  Very  serious,"  the  viscount  replied. 

"You  insist  upon  pistols?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Do  you  leave  us  at  liberty  to  make  the  other  arrange- 
ments ?  " 

The  viscount  articulated  with  a  dry,  jerky  voice: 

"  Twenty  paces,  firing  at  the  word,  lifting  the  arm  in- 
stead of  lowering  it.  Shots  to  be  exchanged  until  some  one 
is  badly  wounded." 

"  Those  are  excellent  conditions,"  said  the  colonel,  in  a 
tone  of  satisfaction.  "  You  are  a  good  shot ;  the  chances  are 
all  in  your  favour." 

And  they  separated.  The  viscount  returned  home  to  wait 
for  them.  His  agitation,  which  had  been  temporarily  allayed, 
increased  from  moment  to  moment.  He  felt  along  his  arms 
and  legs,  in  his  chest,  a  sort  of  shudder,  an  incessant  vibra- 
— 4ion ;  he  could  not  keep  still,  either  sitting  or  standing.  He 
had  only  a  trace  of  moisture  in  his  mouth,  and  he  moved  his 
tongue  noisily  every  second,  as  if  to  unglue  it  from  his  palate. 

He  tried  to  breakfast,  but  he  could  not  eat.  Thereupon 
it  occurred  to  him  to  drink  to  renew  his  courage,  and  he 
ordered  a  small  decanter  of  rum,  from  which  he  gulped  down 
six  little  glasses,  one  after  another.  A  warmth,  like  that 
caused  by  a  burn,  invaded  his  whole  frame,  followed  as  soon 
by  a  giddiness  of  the  soul. 

"  I  have  found  the  way,"  he  thought ;  "  now  it  is  all 
right." 

But  in  an  hour  he  had  emptied  the  decanter,  and  his  agi- 


A  COWARD  475 

tation  became  intolerable.  He  was  conscious  of  a  frantic 
longing  to  throw  himself  on  the  floor,  to  cry,  to  bite.  Eve- 
ning fell. 

A  ring  at  the  bell  caused  him  such  a  feeling  of  suffo- 
cation that  he  had  not  the  strength  to  rise  and  receive  his 
seconds. 

He  did  not  dare  even  to  talk  to  them  any  longer — to  say : 

"How  do^you  do?"  to  utter  a  single  word,  for   fear  that 

they  would  divine  everything  from  the  trembling  of  his  voice. 

"  Everything  is  arranged  according  to  the  conditions  that 

you    fixed,"    said   the    colonel.      "  At^iirst,„. your   adversary,* 

«--e4«imed  the  privileges  of  the  insulted  party,  but  he  gave  way 

^^most  immediately  and  assented  to  everything.    His  seconds 

^a«edafl5adaiiJitaiX-Siin." 

The  viscount  said: 

"  Thank  you." 

The  marquis  added: 

"  Excuse  us  if  we  stay  but  a  moment,  but  we  still  have 
a  thousand  things  to  attend  to.  We  must  have  a  good  doc- 
tor, as  the  duel  is  not  to  stop  until  somebody  is  severely 
wounded ;  and  you  know  there's  no  trifling  with  bullets.  -'Wrr 
•must  arrange  about  the  place,  too^ — near  a  house  to  which 
the  wounded  man  may  be  taken  if  necessary,  etc. ;  in  short, 
_we  still  have  two  or  three  hours'  work  before  us." 

The  viscount  succeeded  in  articulating  a  second  time: 

"  Thank  you." 

The  colonel  asked: 

"  You  are  all  right  ?  quite  calm  ?  " 

"  Yes,  quite  calm,  thanks." 

The  two  men  withdrew. 

When  he  was  alone  once  more  it  seemed  to  him  that  he 
was  going  mad.  His-SCTvant-lMwdng-^iigl;vted-th«  lamps;  he 
seated  himself  at  his  table  to  write  some  letters.  After 
tracing  at  the  top  of  a  page :  "  This  is  my  Will,"  he  rose 
with  a  jump  and  walked  away,  feeling  incapable  of  putting 
two  ideas  together,  of  forming  any  resolution,  of  deciding 
any  question  whatsoever. 

So  he  was  really  going  to  fight !  It  was  no  longer  pos- 
sible for  him  to  avoid  it.  What  on  earth  was  taking  place 
in  him  ?    He  wanted  to  fight ;  his  purpose  and  determination 


4l6  THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

to  do  so  were  firmly  fixed;  and  yet  he  knew  full  well  that, 
despite  all  the  effort  of  his  mind  and  all  the  tension  of  his 
will,  he  would  be  unable  to  retain  even  the  strength  neces- 
sary to  take  him  to  the  place  of  meeting.  He  tried  to  fancy 
the  combat,  his  own  attitude,  and  the  bearing  of  his  ad- 
versary. 

From  time  to  time  his  teeth  chattered  with  a  little  dry 
noise.  He  tried  to  read,  and  took  up  Chateauvillard's  duel- 
ling-code.   Then  he  asked  himself: 

"  Has  my  opponent  frequented  the  shooting-galleries  ?  Is 
he  well-known?    What's  his  class?    How  can  I  find  out?" 

He  remembered  Baron  de  Vaux's  book  on  pistol-shoot- 
ers, and  he  looked  it  through  from  end  to  end.  Georges 
Lamil's  name  was  not  mentioned.  But  if  the  fellow  were 
not  a  good  shot,  he  would  not  have  assented  so  readily  to 
that  dangerous  weapon  and  those  fatal  conditions !  As  he 
passed  a  table,  he  opened  the  case  by  Gastinne  Renette,  took 
out  one  of  the  pistols,  then  stood  as  if  he  were  about  to  fire, 
and  raised  his  arm.  But  he  was  trembling  from  head  to  foot, 
and  the  barrel  shook  in  all  directions. 

Then  he  said  to  himself: 

"  It  is  impossible.     I  cannot  fight  like  this  !  " 

He  regarded  the  little  hole,  black  and  deep,  at  the  end  of 
the  barrel,  the  hple  that  spits  out  death ;  he  thought  of  the 
dishonour,  of  the  whispered  comments  at  the  clubs,  of  the 
laughter  in  the  salons,  of  the  disdain  of  the  women,  of  the 
allusions  in  the  newspapers,  of  the  insults  which  cowards 
would  throw  in  his  face. 

He  continued  to  gaze  at  the  weapon,  and  as  he  raised  the 
hammer,  he  saw  the  priming  glitter  beneath  it  like  a  little 
red  flame.  The  pistol  had  been  left  loaded,  by  chance,  by 
oversight.  And  he  experienced  a  confused,  inexplicable  joy 
thereat. 

If  he  did  not  display  in  the  other's  presence  the  calm  and 
noble  bearing  suited  to  the  occasion,  he  would  be  lost  for- 
ever. He  would  be  disgraced,  branded  with  the  sign  of  in- 
famy, hunted  from  society !  And  that  calm  and  bold  bearing 
he  could  not  command — he  knew  it,  he  felt  it.  And  yet  he 
was  really  brave,  because  he  wanted  to  fight !  He  was  brave, 
because — .  The  thought  that  grazed  his  mind  was  never 
completed;  opening  his  mouth  wide,  he  suddenly  thrust  the 


A  Coward  411 

barrel  of  the  pistol  into  the  very  bottom  of  his  throat  and 
pressed  upon  the  trigger. 

When  his  valet  ran  in,  alarmed  by  the  report,  he  found 
him  on  his  back,  dead.  The  blood  had  spattered  the  white 
paper  on  the  table,  and  made  a  great  red  stain  under  the 
four  words : 

"  This  is  my  Will." 


A    LIST    OF    REPRESENTATIVE    TALES    AND 
SHORT    STORIES 

XVIII 

1895    TO    1903: 

The  Golden  Age,  Kenneth  Grahame   (1895). 

The  Brushwood  Boy,  Rudyard  KipHng   (1895). 

Down  Dartmoor  Way,  Eden  Phillpotts  (1895). 

Earthwork  out  of  Tuscany,  Maurice  Hewlett   (1895). 

Tchelkache,  Maxime  Gorky  (1895). 

Terminations,  Henry  James   (1895). 

Recommencements,  Paul  Bourget  (1897). 

The  Secret  Rose,  W.  B.  Yeats   (1897). 

Thirty   Strange   Stories,  H.   G.  Wells    (1897). 

Contes  de   la   Decadence   Romaine,  Jean    Richepin    (1898). 

The   Day's  Work,   Rudyard   Kipling    (1898). 

Tales  of  Unrest,  Joseph  Conrad  (1898). 

The  Two  Magics,  Henry  James  (1898). 

Tales  of  Space  and  Time,  H.  G.  Wells   (1899). 

The  Greater   Inclination,   Edith   Wharton    (1899). 

Little  Novels  of  Italy,  Maurice  Hewlett  (1899). 

The   Touchstone,    Edith    Wharton    (1900). 

The  Green  Flag,  A.  Conan  Doyle   (1900).    . 

Old  Fires  and  Profitable  Ghosts,  A.  T.  Quiller-Couch  (1900). 

The  Soft  Side,  Henry  James    (1900). 

Old  Chester  Tales,  Margaret  Deland  (1901). 

The  Striking  Hours,  Eden  Phillpotts   (1901). 

Understudies,  Mary  E.  Wilkins    (1901). 

Crucial  Instances,  Edith  Wharton   (1901). 

The  White  Wolf,  A.  T.  Quiller-Couch   (1902). 

The  Blue  Flower,  Henry  Van  Dyke   (1902). 

Youth,  Joseph  Conrad   (1902). 

The  Better  Sort,  Henry  James    (1903). 

La  Lampe  de  Psyche,  Marcel   Schwob   (1903). 

479 


48o  THE  BOOK   OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

Falk,  Joseph  Conrad   (1903). 

The  Untilled  Field,  George  Moore  (1903). 

Contes  pour  les  Jours  de  Fete,  Franqois  Coppee  (1903). 

Trent's  Trust,  and  Other  Stories,  Bret  Harte   (1903). 

Philosophy  4,  Owen  Wister  (1903). 


WITHOUT  BENEFIT  OF  CLERGY 


WITHOUT  BENEFIT  OF  CLERGY 

RuDYARD  Kipling's  (1865-)  first  volume  of  Short 
Stories  was  Plain  Tales  from  the  Hills  (1888).  After  the 
publication  of  that  volume  his  work  may  be  said  to  have 
steadily  grown  in  power  until  the  publication  of  Life's 
Handicap  (1891),  which  probably  marks  the  apogee  both 
of  his  art  and  of  his  reputation.  Perhaps  since  then  he 
has  done  work  as  good,  but  the  best  stories  of  that  vol- 
ume have  not  since  been  surpassed  either  by  Kipling  or 
by  any  other  English  writer;  for  Life's  Handicap  con- 
tains these  masterpieces:  The  Courting  of  Dinah  Shadd 
(1890),  The  Man  Who  Was  (1890),  Without  Benefit  of 
Clergy  (1890),  At  the  End  of  the  Passage  (1891).  The 
most  important  of  Kipling's  remaining  Short  Stories 
perhaps  are:  The  Man  Who  Would  Be  King  (1888), 
The  Drums  of  the  Fore  and  Aft  (1888),  Beyond  the 
Pale  (1888),  The  Brushwood  Boy  (1895),  They  (1904), 
and  the  stories  contained  in  The  Jungle  Books  (1894- 
1895),  Puck  of  Pook's  Hill  (1904),  and  Rewards  and 
Fairies   (1910). 

Without  Benefit  of  Clergy  was  first  published  in  the 
June,  1890,  number  of  Macmillan's  Magazine  (Lon- 
don), and  in  the  June  7th  and  14th  numbers  of 
Harper's  Weekly  (New  York),  1890.  Later  in  the 
same  year  it  was  republished  in  the  volume  enti- 
tled The  Courting  of  Dinah  Shadd,  and  Other  Sto- 
ries. In  1891  it  was  republished  in  the  volume, 
Life's  Handicap.  Certainly  it  is  unsurpassed  among 
Kipling's  Short  Stories;  it  strongly  presents  both  his 
chief  merits  and  his  particular  characteristics.  **  The 
tremulous   passion   of   Ameera,"   says   Edmund    Gosse, 

.483 


484      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

"  her  hopes,  her  fears,  and  her  agonies  of  disappoint- 
ment, combine  to  form  by  far  the  most  tender  page  which 
Mr.  Kipling  has  written."  Love  stories  of  such  rank  as 
this  have  been  given  us  only  by  the  greatest  writers,  and 
that  Kipling  has  added  one  to  the  not  too  large  an- 
thology is  testimony  both  to  his  genius  and  to  the  power 
of  the  modern  Short  Story. 

AUTHORITIES  : 

Rudyard  Kipling:  A  Criticism,  by  Richard  Le  Gal- 
lienne ;  with  a  bibliography  by  John  Lane. 

Questions  at  Issue,  by  Edmund  Gosse. 

A  Kipling  Primer,  by  Frederic  L.  Knowles. 

The  Short  Story  in  English,  by  Henry  Seidel  Canby 
(Chapter  XVIII). 


WITHOUT  BENEFIT  OF  CLERGY 

Before  my  Spring  I  garnered  Autumn's  gain, 
Out  of  her  time  my  field  was  white  with  grain, 

The  year  gave  up  her  secrets  to  my  woe. 
Forced  and  deflowered  each  sick  season  lay, 
In  mystery  of  increase  and  decay  ; 
I  saw  the  sunset  ere  men  saw  the  day. 

Who  am  too  wise  in  that  I  should  not  know. 

Bitter  Waters. 


"But  if  it  be  a  girl?" 

"  Lord  of  my  life,  it  cannot  be.  I  have  prayed  for  so 
many  nights,  and  sent  gifts  to  Sheikh  Badl's  shrine  so  often, 
that  I  know  God  will  give  us  a  son — a  man-child  that  shall 
grow  into  a  man.  Think  of  this  and  be  glad.  My  mother 
shall  be  his  mother  till  I  can  take  him  again,  and  the  mullah 
of  the  Pattan  mosque  shall  cast  his  nativity — God  send  he 
be  born  in  an  auspicious  hour! — and  then,  and  then  thou 
wilt  never  weary  of  me,  thy  slave." 
•       "  Since  when  hast  thou  been  a  slave,  my  queen?" 

"  Since  the  beginning — till  this  mercy  came  to  me.  How 
could  I  be  sure  of  thy  love  when  I  knew  that  I  had  been 
bought  with  silver  ?  " 

"  Nay,  that  was  the  dowry.    I  paid  it  to  thy  mother." 

"  And  she  has  buried  it,  and  sits  upon  it  all  day  long  like  a 
hen.  What  talk  is  yours  of  dower !  I  was  bought  as  though 
I  had  been  a  Lucknow  dancing-girl  instead  of  a  child." 

"  Art  thou  sorry  for  the  sale  ?  " 

"  I  have  sorrowed ;  but  to-day  I  am  glad.  Thou  wilt  never 
cease  to  love  me  now  ? — answer,  my  king." 

"  Never — never.    No." 

"  Not  even  though  the  mem-log — the  white  women  of  thy 

4S5 


4S6     THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STOrV 

own  blood — love  thee  ?    And  remember,  I  have  watched  them 
driving  in  the  evening;  they  are  very  fair." 

"  I  have  seen  fire-balloons  by  the  hundred.  I  have  seen 
the  moon,  and — then  I  saw  no  more  fire-balloons." 

Ameera  clapped  her  hands  and  laughed.  "  Very  good 
talk/'  she  said.  Then  with  an  assumption  of  great  stateli- 
ness :  "  It  is  enough.  Thou  hast  my  permission  to  depart — 
if  thou  wilt." 

The  man  did  not  move.  He  was  sitting  on  a  low  red- 
lacquered  couch  in  a  room  furnished  only  with  a  blue  and 
white  floor-cloth,  some  rugs,  and  a  very  complete  collection 
of  native  cushions.  At  his  feet  sat  a  woman  of  sixteen,  and 
she  was  all  but  all  the  world  in  his  eyes.  By  every  rule  and 
law  she  should  have  been  otherwise,  for  he  was  an  English- 
man, and  she  a  Mussulman's  daughter  bought  two  years  be- 
fore from  her  mother,  who,  being  left  without  money,  would 
have  sold  Ameera  shrieking  to  the  Prince  of  Darkness  if  the 
price  had  been  sufficient. 

It  was  a  contract  entered  into  with  a  light  heart ;  but  even 
before  the  girl  had  reached  her  bloom  she  came  to  fill  the 
greater  portion  of  John  Holden's  life.  For  her,  and  the 
withered  hag  her  mother,  he  had  taken  a  little  house  over- 
looking the  great  red-walled  city,  and  found — when  the  mari- 
golds had  sprung  up  by  the  well  in  the  courtyard  and  Ameera 
had  established  herself  according  to  her  own  ideas  of  com- 
fort, and  her  mother  had  ceased  grumbling  at  the  inadequacy 
of  the  cooking-places,  the  distance  from  the  daily  market, 
and  at  matters  of  housekeeping  in  general — that  the  house 
was  to  him  his  home.  Any  one  could  enter  his  bachelor'ai 
bungalow  by  day  or  night,  and  the  life  that  he  led  there  was 
an  unlovely  one.  In  the  house  in  the  city  his  feet  only  could 
pass  beyond  the  outer  courtyard  to  the  women's  rooms;  and 
when  the  big  wooden  gate  was  bolted  behind  him  he  was 
king  in  his  own  territory,  with  Ameera  for  queen.  And  there 
was  going  to  be  added  to  this  kingdom  a  third  person  whose 
arrival  Holden  felt  inclined  to  resent.  It  interfered  with  his 
perfect  happiness.  It  disarranged  the  orderly  peace  of  the 
house  that  was  his  own.  But  Ameera  was  wild  with  delight 
at  the  thought  of  it,  and  her  mother  not  less  so.  The  love  of 
a  man,  and  particularly  a  white  man,  was  at  the  best  an  in- 
constant affair,  but  it  might,  both  women  argued,  be  held 


WITHOUT   BENEFIT   OF  CLERGY  487 

fast  by  a  baby's  hands.  "  And  then,"  Anieera  would  always 
say,  "  then  he  will  never  care  for  the  white  mem-log.  I  hate 
them  all — I  hate  them  all." 

"  He  will  go  back  to  his  own  people  in  time,"  said  the 
mother ;  **  but  by  the  blessing  of  God  that  time  is  yet  afar 
off." 

Holden  sat  silent  on  the  couch  thinking  of  the  future,  and 
his  thoughts  were  not  pleasant.  The  drawbacks  of  a  double 
life  are  manifold.  The  Government,  with  singular  care,  had 
ordered  him  out  of  the  station  for  a  fortnight  on  special  duty 
in  the  place  of  a  man  who  was  watching  by  the  bedside  of  a 
sick  wife.  The  verbal  notification  of  the  transfer  had  been 
edged  by  a  cheerful  remark  that  Holden  ought  to  think  him- 
self lucky  in  being  a  bachelor  and  a  free  man.  He  came  to 
break  the  news  to  Ameera. 

"  It  is  not  good,"  she  said  slowly,  "  but  it  is  not  all  bad. 
There  is  my  mother  here,  and  no  harm  will  come  to  me — 
unless  indeed  I  die  of  pure  joy.  Go  thou  to  thy  work  and 
think  no  troublesome  thoughts.  When  the  days  are  done  I 
believe  .  .  .  nay,  I  am  sure.  And — and  then  I  shall  lay  him 
in  thy  arms,  and  thou  wilt  love  me  forever.  The  train  goes 
to-night,  at  midnight  is  it  not?  Go  now,  and  do  not  let  thy 
heart  be  heavy  by  cause  of  me.  But  thou  wilt  not  delay  in 
returning?  Thou  wilt  not  stay  on  the  road  to  talk  to  the  bold 
white  mem-log.     Come  back  to  me  swiftly,  my  life." 

As  he  left  the  courtyard  to  reach  his  horse  that  was  teth- 
ered to  the  gate-post,  Holden  spoke  to  the  white-haired  old 
watchman  who  guarded  the  house,  and  bade  him  under  certain 
contingencies  despatch  the  filled-up  telegraph-form  that  Hol- 
den gave  him.  It  was  all  that  could  be  done,  and  with  the 
sensations  of  a  man  who  has  attended  his  own  funeral  Holden 
w'ent  away  by  the  night  mail  to  his  exile.  Every  hour  of  the 
day  he  dreaded  the  arrival  of  the  telegram,  and  every  hour 
of  the  night  he  pictured  to  himself  the  death  of  Ameera. 
In  consequence  his  work  for  the  state  was  not  of  first-rate 
quality,  nor  was  his  temper  towards  his  colleagues  of  the  most 
amiable.  The  fortnight  ended  without  a  sign  from  his  home, 
and,  torn  to  pieces  by  his  anxieties,  Holden  returned  to  be 
swallowed  up  for  two  precious  hours  by  a  dinner  at  the  club, 
wherein  he  heard,  as  a  man  hears  in  a  swoon,  voices  telling 
him  how  execrably  he  had  performed  the  other  man's  duties, 


488      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

and  how  he  had  endeared  himself  to  all  his  associates.  Then 
he  fled  on  horseback  through  the  night  with  his  heart  in  his 
mouth.  There  was  no  answer  at  first  to  his  blows  on  the 
gate,  and  he  had  just  wheeled  his  horse  round  to  kick  it  in 
when  Pir  Khan  appeared  with  a  lantern  and  held  his  stirrup. 

"  Has  aught  occurred  ?  "  said  Holden. 

"  The  news  does  not  come  from  my  mouth,  Protector  of 
the  Poor,  but — "  He  held  out  his  shaking  hand  as  befitted 
the  bearer  of  good  news  who  is  entitled  to  a  reward. 

Holden  hurried  through  the  courtyard.  A  light  burned 
in  the  upper  room.  His  horse  neighed  in  the  gateway,  and 
he  heard  a  shrill  little  wail  that  sent  all  the  blood  into  the 
apple  of  his  throat.  It  was  a  new  voice,  but  it  did  not  prove 
that  Ameera  was  alive. 

"  Who  is  there  ?  "  he  called  up  the  narrow  brick  staircase. 

There  was  a  cry  of  delight  from  Ameera,  and  then  the 
voice  of  the  mother,  tremulous  with  old  age  and  pride — "  We 
be  two  women  and — the — man — thy — son." 

On  the  threshold  of  the  room  Holden  stepped  on  a  naked 
dagger,  that  was  laid  there  to  avert  ill-luck,  and  it  broke  at 
the  hilt  under  his  impatient  heel. 

"  God  is  great !  "  cooed  Ameera  in  the  half-light.  "  Thou 
hast  taken  his  misfortunes  on  thy  head." 

"  Ay,  but  how  is  it  with  thee,  life  of  my  life  ?  Old  woman, 
how  is  it  with  her?" 

"  She  has  forgotten  her  sufferings  for  joy  that  the  child  is 
born.    There  is  no  harm ;  but  speak  softly,"  said  the  mother. 

"  It  only  needed  thy  presence  to  make  me  all  well,"  said 
Ameera.  "  My  king,  thou  hast  been  very  long  away.  What 
gifts  hast  thou  for  me?  Ah,  ah  !  It  is  I  that  bring  gifts  this 
time.  Look,  my  life,  look.  Was  there  ever  such  a  babe? 
Nay,  I  am  too  weak  even  to  clear  my  arm  from  him." 

"  Rest  then,  and  do  not  talk.  I  am  here,  bachari  [little 
woman]." 

"  Well  said,  for  there  is  a  bond  and  a  heel-rope  [peecha- 
ree]  between  us  now  that  nothing  can  break.  Look — canst 
thou  see  in  this  light?  He  is  without  spot  or  blemish.  Never 
was  such  a  man-child.  Ya  illah!  he  shall  be  a  pundit — no,  a 
trooper  of  the  Queen.  And,  my  Hfe,  dost  thou  love  me  as 
well  as  ever,  though  I  am  faint  and  sick  and  worn  ?  Answer 
truly." 


WITHOUT  BENEFIT  OF  CLERGY  4^9 

"  Yea.  I  love  as  I  have  loved,  with  all  my  soul.  Lie 
stin,  pearl,  and  rest." 

"  Then  do  not  go.  Sit  by  my  side  here — so.  Mother, 
the  lord  of  this  house  needs  a  cushion.  Bring  it."  There 
was  an  almost  imperceptible  movement  on  the  part  of  the 
new  life  that  lay  in  the  hollow  of  Ameera's  arm.  "  Aho !  " 
she  said,  her  voice  breaking  with  love.  "  The  babe  is  a 
champion  from  his  birth.  He  is  kicking  me  in  the  side  with 
mighty  kicks.  Was  there  ever  such  a  babe !  And  he  is  ours 
to  us — thine  and  mine.  Put  thy  hand  on  his  head,  but  care- 
fully, for  he  is  very  young,  and  men  are  unskilled  in  such 
matters." 

Very  cautiously  Holden  touched  with  the  tips  of  his  fin- 
gers the  downy  head. 

"  He  is  of  the  Faith,"  said  Ameera ;  "  for  lying  here  in 
the  night-watches  I  whispered  the  Call  to  Prayer  and  the 
Profession  of  Faith  into  his  ears.  And  it  is  most  marvellous 
that  he  was  born  upon  a  Friday,  as  I  was  born.  Be  careful 
of  him,  my  life ;  but  he  can  almost  grip  with  his  hands." 

Holden  found  one  helpless  little  hand  that  closed  feebly 
on  his  finger.  And  the  clutch  ran  through  his  body  till  it 
settled  about  his  heart.  Till  then  his  sole  thought  had  been 
for  Ameera.  He  began  to  realise  that  there  was  some  one 
else  in  the  world,  but  he  could  not  feel  that  it  was  a  veritable 
son  with  a  soul.  He  sat  down  to  think,  and  Ameera  dozed 
lightly. 

"  Get  hence,  sahib/'  said  her  mother  under  her  breath. 
"  It  is  not  good  that  she  should  find  you  here  on  waking. 
She  must  be  still." 

"  I  go,"  said  Holden  submissively.  "  Here  be  rupees.  See 
that  my  baba  gets  fat  and  finds  all  that  he  needs." 

The  chink  of  the  silver  roused  Ameera.  "  I  am  his  moth- 
er, and  no  hireling,"  she  said  weakly.  "  Shall  I  look  to  him 
more  or  less  for  the  sake  of  money?  Mother,  give  it  back. 
I  have  borne  my  lord  a  son." 

The  deep  sleep  of  weakness  came  upon  her  almost  before 
the  sentence  was  completed.  Holden  went  down  to  the  court- 
yard very  softly,  with  his  heart  at  ease.  Pir  Khan,  the  old 
watchman,  was  chuckling  with  delight.  "  This  house  is  now 
complete,"  he  said,  and  without  further  comment  thrust  into 
Holden's  hands  the  hilt  of  a  sabre  worn  many  years  ago 
33 


49«      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

when  he,  Pir  Khan^  served  the  Queen  in  the  police.  The 
bleat  of  a  tethered  goat  came  from  the  well-curb. 

"  There  be  two,"  said  Pir  Khan,  "  two  goats  of  the  best. 
I  bought  them,  and  they  cost  much  money;  and  since  there 
is  no  birth-party  assembled  their  flesh  will  be  all  mine.  Strike 
craftily,  sahib !  'T  is  an  ill-balanced  sabre  at  the  best.  Wait 
till  they  raise  their  heads  from  cropping  the  marigolds." 

"  And  why?  "  said  Holden,  bewildered. 

"For  the  birth-sacrifice.  What  else?  Otherwise  the 
child  being  unguarded  from  fate  may  die.  The  Protector 
of  the  Poor  knows  the  fitting  words  to  be  said." 

Holden  had  learned  them  once  with  little  thought  that 
he  would  ever  speak  them  in  earnest.  The  touch  of  the  cold 
sabre-hilt  in  his  palm  turned  suddenly  to  the  clinging  grip 
of  the  child  up-stairs — the  child  that  was  his  own  son — and 
a  dread  of  loss  filled  him. 

"  Strike !  "  said  Pir  Khan.  "  Never  life  came  into  the 
world  but  life  was  paid  for  it.  See,  the  goats  have  raised 
their  heads.    Now  !     With  a  drawing  cut !  " 

Hardly  knowing  what  he  did  Holden  cut  twice  as  he 
muttered  the  Mohammedan  prayer  that  runs :  "  Almighty  !  In 
place  of  this  my  son  I  offer  life  for  life,  blood  for  blood, 
head  for  head,  bone  for  bone,  hair  for  hair,  skin  for  skin." 
The  waiting  horse  snorted  and  bounded  in  his  pickets  at  the 
smell  of  the  raw  blood  that  spirted  over  Holden's  riding- 
boots. 

"  Well  smitten  !  "  said  Pir  Khan,  wiping  the  sabre.  "  A 
swordsman  was  lost  in  thee.  Go  with  a  light  heart,  heaven- 
born.  I  am  thy  servant,  and  the  servant  of  thy  son.  May 
the  Presence  live  a  thousand  years  and  .  .  .  Hie  flesh  of  the 
goats  is  all  mine?  "  Pir  Khan  drew  back  richer  by  a  month's 
pay.  Holden  swung  himself  into  the  saddle  and  rode  off 
through  the  low-hanging  wood-smoke  of  the  evening.  He 
was  full  of  riotous  exultation,  alternating  with  a  vast  vague 
tenderness  directed  towards  no  particular  object,  that  made 
him  choke  as  he  bent  over  the  neck  of  his  uneasy  horse.  "  I 
never  felt  like  this  in  my  life,"  he  thought.  "  I'll  go  to  the 
club  and  pull  myself  together." 

A  game  of  pool  was  beginning,  and  the  room  was  full  of 
men.  Holden  entered,  eager  to  get  to  the  light  and  the  com- 
pany of  his  fellows,  singing  at  the  top  of  his  voice ; 


WITHOUT  BENEFIT  OF  CLERGY  491 

••  *  In  Baltimore  a-walking,  a  lady  I  did  meet !  * " 

"  Did  you  ? "  said  the  club-secretary  from  his  corner. 
"  Did  she  happen  to  tell  you  that  your  boots  were  wringing 
wet  ?    Great  goodness,  man,  it's  blood  !  " 

"  Bosh !  "  said  Holden,  picking  his  cue  from  the  rack. 
"  May  I  cut  in  ?  It's  dew.  I've  been  riding  through  high 
crops.  ^My  faith  !  my  boots  are  in  a  mess,  though  !  " 

**  •  And  if  it  be  a  girl  she  shall  wear  a  wedding-ring, 
And  if  it  be  a  boy  he  shall  fight  for  his  king, 
With  his  dirk,  and  his  cap,  and  his  little  jacket  blue, 
He  shall  walk  the  quarter-deck '  ** 

"Yellow  on  blue — green  next  player,"  said  the  marker 
monotonously. 

"  'He  shall  zvalk  the  quarter-deck  ' — Am  I  green,  marker  ? 
— '  He  shall  walk  the  quarter-deck  ' — eh  !  that's  a  bad  shot — 
'  As  his  daddy  used  to  do ! '  " 

"  I  don't  see  that  you  have  anything  to  crow  about,"  said 
a  zealous  junior  civilian  acidly.  *'  The  Government  is  not 
exactly  pleased  with  your  work  when  you  relieved  Sanders." 

"  Does  that  mean  a  wigging  from  headquarters  ?  "  said 
Holden  with  an  abstracted  smile.    "  I  think  I  can  stand  it." 

The  talk  beat  up  round  the  ever-fresh  subject  of  each 
man's  work,  and  steadied  Holden  till  it  was  time  to  go  to  his 
dark  empty  bungalow,  where  his  butler  received  him  as  one 
who  knew  all  his  affairs.  Holden  remained  awake  for  the 
greater  part  of  the  night,  and  his  dreams  were  pleasant  ones. 

II 

"  How  old  is  he  now  ?  " 

"  Ya  illah!  What  a  man's  question!  He  is  all  but  six 
weeks  old;  and  on  this  night  I  go  up  to  the  housetop  with 
thee,  my  life,  to  count  the  stars.  For  that  is  auspicious.  And 
he  was  born  on  a  Friday  under  the  sign  of  the  Sun,  and  it 
has  been  told  to  me  that  he  will  outlive  us  both  and  get 
wealth.    Can  we  wish  for  aught  better,  beloved?" 

"  There  is  nothing  better.  Let  us  go  up  to  the  roof,  and 
thou  shalt  count  the  stars — but  a  few  only,  for  the  sky  is 
heavy  with  cloud." 


4^i  THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

"  The  winter  rains  are  late,  and  maybe  they  come  out  of 
season.  Come,  before  all  the  stars  are  hid.  I  have  put  on 
my  richest  jewels." 

"  Thou  hast  forgotten  the  best  of  all." 

"  Ai!  Ours.  He  comes  also.  He  has  never  yet  seen  the 
skies." 

Ameera  climbed  the  narrow  staircase  that  led  to  the  flat 
roof.  The  child,  placid  and  unwinking,  lay  in  the  hollow  of 
her  right  arm,  gorgeous  in  silver-fringed  muslin  with  a  small 
skull-cap  on  his  head.  Ameera  wore  all  that  she  valued 
most.  The  diamond  nose-stud  that  takes  the  place  of  the 
Western  patch  in  drawing  attention  to  the  curve  of  the  nos- 
tril, the  gold  ornament  in  the  centre  of  the  forehead  studded 
with  tallow-drop  emeralds  and  flawed  rubies,  the  heavy  cir- 
clet of  beaten  gold  that  was  fastened  round  her  neck  by  the 
softness  of  the  pure  metal,  and  the  chinking  curb-patterned 
silver  anklets  hanging  low  over  the  rosy  ankle-bone.  She 
was  dressed  in  jade-green  muslin  as  befitted  a  daughter  of 
the  Faith,  and  from  shoulder  to  elbow  and  elbow  to  wrist  ran 
bracelets  of  silver  tied  with  floss  silk,  frail  glass  bangles 
slipped  over  the  wrist  in  proof  of  the  slenderness  of  the  hand, 
and  certain  heavy  gold  bracelets  that  had  no  part  in  her 
country's  ornaments  but,  since  they  were  Holden's  gift  and 
fastened  with  a  cunning  European  snap,  delighted  her  im- 
mensely. 

They  sat  down  by  the  low  white  parapet  of  the  roof,  over- 
looking the  city  and  its  lights. 

"  They  are  happy  down  there,"  said  Ameera.  "  But  I  do 
not  think  that  they  are  as  happy  as  we.  Nor  do  I  think  the 
white  mem-log  are  as  happy.    And  thou  ?  " 

"  I  know  they  are  not." 

"  How  dost  thou  know?  " 

"  They  give  their  children  over  to  the  nurses." 

"  I  have  never  seen  that,"  said  Ameera  with  a  sigh,  "  nor 
do  I  wish  to  see.  Ahi! " — she  dropped  her  head  on  Holden's 
shoulder —  "  I  have  counted  forty  stars,  and  I  am  tired.  Look 
at  the  child,  love  of  my  life,  he  is  counting  too." 

The  baby  was  staring  with  round  eyes  at  the  dark  of  the 
heavens.  Ameera  placed  him  in  Holden's  arms,  and  he  lay 
there  without  a  cry. 

"What  shall  we  call  him  among  ourselves?"  she  said. 


WITHOUT  BENEFIT  OF  CLERGY  493 

"Look!     Art  thou  ever  tired  of  looking?     He  carries  thy 

very  eyes.    But  the  mouth " 

"  Is  thine,  most  dear.    Who  should  know  better  than  I  ?  " 
"  'Tis  such  a  feeble  mouth.     Oh,  so  small !     And  yet  it 
holds  my  heart  between  its  lips.    Give  him  to  me  now.    He 
has  been  too  long  away." 

"  Nay,  let  him  He ;  he  has  not  yet  begun  to  cry." 
"  When  he  cries  thou  wilt  give  him  back — eh  ?    What  a 
man  of  mankind  thou   art !     If  he  cried  he  were  only  the 
dearer  to  me.     But,  my  life,  what  little  name  shall  we  give 
him?" 

The  small  body  lay  close  to  Holden's  heart.  It  was  utter- 
ly helpless  and  very  soft.  He  scarcely  dared  to  breathe  for 
fear  of  crushing  it.  The  caged  green  parrot  that  is  regarded 
as  a  sort  of  guardian  spirit  in  most  native  households  moved 
on  its  perch  and  fluttered  a  drowsy  wing. 

"  There  is  the  answer,"  said  Holden.  "  Mian  Mittu  has 
spoken.  He  shall  be  the  parrot.  When  he  is  ready  he  will 
talk  mightily  and  run  about.  Mian  Mittu  is  the  parrot  in  thy 
— in  the  Mussulman  tongue,  is  it  not  ?  " 

"  Why  put  me  so  far  off?  "  said  Ameera  fretfully.  "  Let 
it  be  like  unto  some  English  name — but  not  wholly.  For  he 
is  mine." 

"  Then  call  him  Tota,  for  that  is  likest  English." 
"  Ay,  Tota,  and  that  is  still  the  parrot.  Forgive  me,  my 
lord,  for  a  minute  ago,  but  in  truth  he  is  too  little  to  wear  all 
the  weight  of  Mian  Mittu  for  name.  He  shall  be  Tota — our 
Tota  to  us.  Hearest  thou,  O  small  one?  Littlest,  thou  art 
Tota."  She  touched  the  child's  cheek,  and  he  waking  wailed, 
and  it  was  necessary  to  return  him  to  his  mother,  who  soothed 
him  with  the  wonderful  rhyme  of  "Are  koko,  J  are  koko!" 
which  says: 

*'  Oh,  crow!     Go  crow!     Baby's  sleeping  sound, 
And  the  wild  plums  grow  in  the  jungle,  only  a  penny  a  pound, 
Only  a  penny  a  pound,  baba,  only  a  penny  a  pound." 

Reassured  many  times  as  to  the  price  of  those  plums,  Tota 
cuddled  himself  down  to  sleep.  The  two  sleek,  white  well- 
bullocks  in  the  courtyard  were  steadily  chewing  the  cud  of 
their  evening  meal;  old  Pir  Khan  squatted  at  the  head  of 
Holden's  horse,  his  police  sabre  across  his   knees,   pulling 


494      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

drowsily  at  a  big  water-pipe  that  croaked  like  a  bullfrog  in 
a  pond.  Ameera's  mother  sat  spinning  in  the  lower  veranda, 
and  the  wooden  gate  was  shut  and  barred.  The  music  of  a 
marriage-procession  came  to  the  roof  above  the  gentle  hum 
of  the  city,  and  a  string  of  flying-foxes  crossed  the  face  of 
the  low  moon. 

"  I  have  prayed,"  said  Ameera,  after  a  long  pause,  "  I 
have  prayed  for  two  things.  First,  that  I  may  die  in  thy 
stead  if  thy  death  is  demanded,  and  in  the  second  that  I  may 
die  in  the  place  of  the  child.  I  have  prayed  to  the  Prophet 
and  to  Beebee  Miriam  [the  Virgin  Mary].  Thinkest  thou 
either  will  hear?  " 

"  From  thy  lips  who  would  not  hear  the  lightest  word  ? " 

"  I  asked  for  straight  talk,  and  thou  hast  given  me  sweet 
talk.    Will  my  prayers  be  heard  ?  " 

"  How  can  I  say?    God  is  very  good." 

"  Of  that  I  am  not  sure.  Listen  now.  When  I  die,  or  the 
child  dies,  what  is  thy  fate?  Living,  thou  wilt  return  to  the 
bold  white  mem-log,  for  kind  calls  to  kind." 

"  Not  always." 

"  With  a  woman,  no ;  with  a  man  it  is  otherwise.  Thou 
wilt  in  this  life,  later  on,  go  back  to  thine  own  folk.  That 
I  could  almost  endure,  for  I  should  be  dead.  But  in  thy  very 
death  thou  wilt  be  taken  away  to  a  strange  place  and  a  para- 
dise that  I  do  not  know." 

"Will  it  be  paradise?" 

"  Surely,  for  who  would  harm  thee  ?  But  we  two — I  and 
the  child — shall  be  elsewhere,  and  we  cannot  come  to  thee, 
nor  canst  thou  come  to  us.  In  the  old  days,  before  the  child 
was  born,  I  did  not  think  of  these  things;  but  now  I  think  of 
them  always.     It  is  very  hard  talk." 

"  It  will  fall  as  it  will  fall.  To-morrow  we  do  not  know, 
but  to-day  and  love  we  know  well.  Surely  we  are  happy 
now." 

"  So  happy  that  it  were  well  to  make  our  happiness  as- 
sured. And  thy  Beebee  Miriam  should  listen  to  me;  for  she 
is  also  a  woman.  But  then  she  would  envy  me !  It  is  not 
^.eemly  for  men  to  worship  a  woman." 

Holden  laughed  aloud  at  Ameera's  little  spasm  of  jealousy. 

"  Is  it  not  seemly  ?  Why  didst  thou  not  turn  me  from 
worship  of  thee,  then  ?  " 


WITHOUT  BENEFIT  OF  CLERGY  495 

"  Thou  a  worshipper  !  And  of  me  ?  My  king,  for  all  thy 
sweet  words,  well  I  know  that  I  am  thy  servant  and  thy  slave, 
and  the  dust  under  thy  feet.  And  I  would  not  have  it  other- 
wise.   See!" 

Before  Holden  could  prevent  her  she  stooped  forward  and 
touched  his  feet;  recovering  herself  with  a  little  laugh  she 
hugged  Tota  close  to  her  bosom.     Then,  almost  savagely: 

"Is  it  true  that  the  bold  white  mem-log  live  for  three 
times  the  length  of  my  life?  Is  it  true  that  they  make  their 
marriages  not  before  they  are  old  women?" 

"They  marry  as  do  others— when  they  are  women," 

"  That  I  know,  but  they  wed  When  they  are  twenty-five. 
Is  that  true  ?  " 

"  That  is  true." 

"  Ya  itlah!  At  twenty-five  !  Who  would  of  his  own  will 
take  a  wife  even  of  eighteen?  She  is  a  woman — aging  every 
hour.  Twenty-five !  I  shall  be  an  old  woman  at  that  age, 
and — those  mem-log  remain  young  forever.  How  I  hate 
them ! " 

"  What  have  they  to  do  with  us  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  tell.  I  know  only  that  there  may  now  be  alive 
on  this  earth  a  woman  ten  years  older  than  I  who  may  come 
to  thee  and  take  thy  love  ten  years  after  I  am  an  old  woman, 
gray-headed,  and  the  nurse  of  Tota's  son.  That  is  unjust  and 
evil.    They  should  die  too." 

"  Now,  for  all  thy  years  thou  art  a  child,  and  shalt  be 
picked  up  and  carried  down  the  staircase," 

"  Tota  !  Have  a  care  for  Tota,  my  lord !  Thou  at  least 
art  as  foolish  as  any  babe !  "  Ameera  tucked  Tota  out  of 
harm's  way  in  the  hollow  of  her  neck,  and  was  carried  down- 
stairs laughing  in  Holden's  arms,  while  Tota  opened  his  eyes 
and  smiled  after  the  manner  of  the  lesser  angels. 

He  was  a  silent  infant,  and,  almost  before  Holden  could 
realise  that  he  was  in  the  world,  developed  into  a  small 
gold-coloured  little  god  and  unquestioned  despot  of  the  house 
overlooking  the  city.  Those  were  months  of  absolute  happi- 
ness to  Holden  and  Ameera — ^happiness  withdrav/n  from  the 
world,  shut  in  behind  the  wooden  gate  that  Pir  Khan  guarded. 
By  day  Holden  did  his  work  with  an  immense  pity  for  such  as 
were  not  so  fortunate  as  himself,  and  a  sympathy  for  small 
children  that  amazed  and  amused  many  mothers  at  the  little 


49^      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

station  gatherings.  At  nightfall  he  returned  to  Ameera — 
Ameera,  full  of  the  wondrous  doings  of  Tota;  how  he  had 
been  seen  to  clap  his  hands  together  and  move  his  fingers 
with  intention  and  purpose — which  was  manifestly  a  miracle; 
how,  later,  he  had  of  his  own  initiative  crawled  out  of  his 
low  bedstead  on  to  the  floor  and  swayed  on  both  feet  for  the 
space  of  three  breaths. 

"  And  they  were  long  breaths,  for  my  heart  stood  still  with 
delight,"  said  Ameera. 

Then  Tota  took  the  beasts  into  his  councils — the  well-bul- 
locks, the  little  gray  squirrels,  the  mongoose  that  lived  in  a 
hole  near  the  well,  and  especially  Mian  Mittu,  the  parrot, 
whose  tail  he  grievously  pulled,  and  Mian  Mittu  screamed 
till  Ameera  and  Holden  arrived. 

"  O  villain  !  Child  of  strength  !  This  to  thy  brother  on 
the  house-top  !  Tohah,  tobah !  Fie  !  Fie  !  But  I  know  a 
charm  to  make  him  wise  as  Suleiman  and  Aflatoun  [Solomon 
and  Plato].  Now  look,"  said  Ameera.  She  drew  from  an 
embroidered  bag  a  handful  of  almonds.  "  See !  we  count 
seven.    In  the  name  of  God  !  " 

She  placed  Mian  Mittu,  very  angry  and  rumpled,  on  the 
top  of  his  cage,  and  seating  herself  between  the  babe  and 
the  bird  she  cracked  and  peeled  an  almond  less  white  than 
her  teeth.  "  This  is  a  true  charm,  my  life,  and  do  not  laugh. 
See  !  I  give  the  parrot  one  half  and  Tota  the  other."  Mian 
Mittu  with  careful  beak  took  his  share  from  between  Ameera's 
lips,  and  she  kissed  the  other  half  into  the  mouth  of  the  child, 
who  ate  it  slowly  with  wondering  eyes.  "  This  I  will  do  each 
day  of  seven,  and  without  doubt  he  who  is  ours  will  be  a 
bold  speaker  and  wise.  Eh,  Tota,  what  wilt  thou  be  when 
thou  art  a  man  and  I  am  gray-headed  ?  "  Tota  tucked  his 
fat  legs  into  adorable  creases.  He  could  crawl,  but  he  was 
not  going  to  waste  the  spring  of  his  youth  in  idle  speech.  He 
wanted  Mian  Mittu's  tail  to  tweak. 

When  he  was  advanced  to  the  dignity  of  a  silver  belt — 
which,  with  a  magic  square  engraved  on  silver  and  hung 
round  his  neck,  made  up  the  greater  part  of  his  clothing — 
he  staggered  on  a  perilous  journey  down  the  garden  to  Pir 
Khan  and  proffered  him  all  his  jewels  in  exchange  for  one 
little  ride  on  Holden's  horse,  having  seen  his  mother's  mother 
chaffering  with  peddlers  in  the  veranda.    Pir  Khan  wept  and 


WITHOUT    BENEFIT  OF   CLERGY  497 

set  the  untried  feet  on  his  own  gray  head  in  sign  of  fealty, 
and  brought  the  bold  adventurer  to  his  mother's  arms,  vow- 
ing that  Tota  would  be  a  leader  of  men  ere  his  beard  was 
grown. 

One  hot  evening,  while  he  sat  on  the  roof  between  his 
father  and  mother  watching  the  never-ending  warfare  of 
the  kites  that  the  city  boys  flew,  he  demanded  a  kite  of 
his  owq  with  Pir  Khan  to  fly  it,  because  he  had  a  fear  of 
dealing  with  anything  larger  than  himself,  and  when  Holden 
called  him  a  "  spark  "  he  rose  to  his  feet  and  answered  slowly 
in  defence  of  his  new-found  individuality :  "  Hum' park  nahin 
hai.    Hum  admi  hai  [I  am  no  spark,  but  a  man]." 

The  protest  made  Holden  choke  and  devote  himself  very 
seriously  to  a  consideration  of  Tota's  future.  He  need 
hardly  have  taken  the  trouble.  The  delight  of  that  life  was 
too  perfect  to  endure.  Therefore  it  was  taken  away  as  many 
things  are  taken  away  in  India — suddenly  and  without  warn- 
ing. The  little  lord  of  the  house,  as  Pir  Khan  called  him,  grew 
sorrowful  and  complained  of  pains  who  had  never  known 
the  meaning  of  pain.  Ameera,  wild  with  terror,  watched  him 
through  the  night,  and  in  the  dawning  of  the  second  day  the 
life  was  shaken  out  of  him  by  fever — the  seasonal  autumn 
fever.  It  seemed  altogether  impossible  that  he  could  die,  and 
neither  Ameera  nor  Holden  at  first  believed  the  evidence  of 
the  little  body  on  the  bedstead.  Then  Ameera  beat  her  head 
against  the  wall  and  would  have  flung  herself  down  the  well 
in  the  garden  had  Holden  not  restrained  her  by  main  force. 

One  mercy  only  was  granted  to  Holden.  He  rode  to  his 
office  in  broad  daylight  and  found  waiting  him  an  unusually 
heavy  mail  that  demanded  concentrated  attention  and  hard 
work.  He  was  not,  however,  aHve  to  this  kindness  of  the 
gods. 

Ill 

The  first  shock  of  a  bullet  is  no  more  than  a  brisk  pinch. 
The  wrecked  body  does  not  send  in  its  protest  to  the  soul 
till  ten  or  fifteen  seconds  later.  Holden  realised  his  pain 
slowly,  exactly  as  he  had  realised  his  happiness,  and  with 
the  same  imperious  necessity  for  hiding  all  traces  of  it.  In 
the  beginning  he  only  felt  that  there  had  been  a  loss,  and  that 
Ameera  needed  comforting,  where  she  sat  with  her  head  on 


498      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

her  knees  shivering  as  Mian  Mittu  from  the  housetop  called : 
Tota!  Total  Total  Later  all  his  world  and  the  daily  life 
of  it  rose  up  to  hurt  him.  It  was  an  outrage  that  any  one 
of  the  children  at  the  band-stand  in  the  evening  vshould  be 
alive  and  clamorous,  when  his  own  child  lay  dead.  It  was 
more  than  mere  pain  when  one  of  them  touched  him,  and 
stories  told  by  over-fond  fathers  of  their  children's  latest  per- 
formances cut  him  to  the  quick.  He  could  not  declare  his 
pain.  He  had  neither  help,  comfort,  nor  sympathy;  and 
Ameera  at  the  end  of  each  weary  day  would  lead  him  through 
the  hell  of  self-questioning  reproach  which  is  reserved  for 
those  who  have  lost  a  child,  and  believe  that  with  a  little — 
just  a  little — more  care  it  might  have  been  saved. 

"  Perhaps,"  Ameera  would  say,  "  I  did  not  take  sufficient 
heed.  Did  I,  or  did  I  not?  The  sun  on  the  roof  that  day 
when  he  played  so  long  alone  and  I  was — ahi!  braiding  my 
hair — it  may  be  that  the  sun  then  bred  the  fever.  If  I  had 
warned  him  from  the  sun  he  might  have  lived.  But  oh,  my 
life,  say  that  I  am  guiltless !  Thou  knowest  that  I  loved  him 
as  I  love  thee.  Say  that  there  is  no  blame  on  me,  or  I  shall 
die— I  shall  die  !  " 

"  There  is  no  blame — before  God,  none.  It  was  written, 
and  how  could  we  do  aught  to  save?  What  has  been,  has 
been.    Let  it  go,  beloved." 

"  He  was  all  my  heart  to  me.  How  can  I  let  the  thought 
go  when  my  arm  tells  me  every  night  that  he  is  not  here? 
Ahi!  Ahi!  O  Tota,  come  back  to  me — come  back  again,  and 
let  us  be  all  together  as  it  was  before !  " 

"  Peace,  peace !  For  thine  own  sake,  and  for  mine  also, 
if  thou  lovest  me — rest." 

"  By  this  I  know  thou  dost  not  care ;  and  how  shouldst 
thou?  The  white  men  have  hearts  of  stone  and  souls  of 
iron.  Oh,  that  I  had  married  a  rnan  of  mine  own  people 
— though  he  beat  me — and  had  never  eaten  the  bread  of  an 
alien !  " 

"  Am  I  an  alien — mother  of  my  son  ?  " 

"What  else — sahib?  .  .  .  Oh,  forgive  me — forgive!  The 
death  has  driven  me  mad.  Thou  art  the  life  of  my  heart,  and 
the  light  of  my  eyes,  and  the  breath  of  my  life,  and — and  I 
have  put  thee  from  me,  though  it  was  but  for  a  moment. 
If  thou  goest  away,  to  whom  shall  I  look  for  help  ?    Do  not 


WITHOUT  BENEFIT  OF  CLERGY  499 

be  angry.  Indeed,  it  was  the  pain  that  spoke  and  not  thy 
slave." 

"  I  know,  I  know.  We  be  two  who  were  three.  The 
greater  need  therefore  that  we  should  be  one." 

They  were  sitting  on  the  roof  as  of  custom.  The  night 
was  a  warm  one  in  early  spring,  and  sheet-lightning  was 
dancing  on  the  horizon  to  a  broken  tune  played  by  far-off 
thunden    Ameera  settled  herself  in  Holden's  arms. 

"  The  dry  earth  is  lowing  like  a  cow  for  the  rain,  and  I 
— I  am  afraid.  It  was  not  like  this  when  we  counted  the 
stars.  But  thou  lovest  me  as  much  as  before,  though  a  bond 
is  taken  away?    Answer  !  " 

"  I  love  more  because  a  new  bond  has  come  out  of  the 
sorrow  that  we  have  eaten  together,  and  that  thou  knowest." 

"  Yea,  I  knew/'  said  Ameera  in  a  very  small  whisper. 
"  But  it  is  good  to  hear  thee  say  so,  my  life,  who  art  so  strong 
to  help.  I  will  be  a  child  no  more,  but  a  woman  and  an  aid 
to  thee.    Listen  !    Give  me  my  sitar  and  I  will  sing  bravely." 

She  took  the  light  silver-studded  sitar  and  began  a  song 
of  the  great  hero  Rajah  Rasalu.  The  hand  failed  on  the 
strings,  the  tune  halted,  checked,  and  at  a  low  note  turned  off 
to  the  poor  little  nursery-rhyme  about  the  wicked  crow: 

'•  •  And  the  wild  plums  grow  in  the  jungle,  only  a  penny  a  pound. 
Only  a  penny  a  pound,  iada— only  .  .  .*" 

Then  came  the  tears  and  the-pite^us  rebellion  against 
fate  till  she  slept,  moaning  a  littletiilier  sleep,  with  the  right 
arm  thrown  clear  of  the  body  as  though  it  protected  something 
that  was  not  there.  It  was  after  this  night  that  life  became 
a  little  easier  for  Holden.  The  ever-present  pain  of  loss 
drove  him  into  his  work,  and  the  work  repaid  him  by  filling 
up  his  mind  for  nine  or  ten  hours  a  day.  Ameera  sat  alone 
in  the  house  and  brooded,  but  grew  happier  when  she  under- 
stood that  Holden  was  more  at  ease,  according  to  the  custom 
of  women.  They  touched  happiness  again,  but  this  time  with 
caution. 

"  It  was  because  we  loved  Tota  that  he  died.  The  jeal- 
ousy of  God  was  upon  us,"  said  Ameera.  "  I  have  hung  up 
a  large  black  jar  before  our  window  to  turn  the  evil  eye  from 
us,  and  we  must  make  no  protestations  of  delight,  but  go  softly 


500     THE  BOOK.  OF  THE  SHORT  STORV 

underneath  the  stars,  lest  God  find  us  out.  Is  that  not  good 
talk,  worthless  one  ?  " 

She  had  shifted  the  accent  on  the  word  that  means  "  be- 
loved," in  proof  of  the  sincerity  of  her  purpose.  But  the  kiss 
that  followed  the  new  christening  was  a  thing  that  any  deity 
might  have  envied.  They  went  about  henceforward  saying: 
"  It  is  naught,  it  is  naught " ;  and  hoping  that  all  the  Powers 
heard. 

The  Powers  were  busy  on  other  things.  They  had  al- 
lowed thirty  million  people  four  years  of  plenty  wherein  men 
fed  well  and  the  crops  were  certain,  and  the  birth-rate  rose 
year  by  year;  the  districts  reported  a  purely  agricultural 
population  varying  from  nine  hundred  to  two  thousand  to 
the  square  mile  of  the  overburdened  earth ;  and  the  Member 
for  Lower  Tooting,  wandering  about  India  in  pot-hat  and 
frock-coat,  talked  largely  of  the  benefits  of  British  rule  and 
suggested  as  the  one  thing  needful  the  establishment  of  a 
duly  qualified  electoral  system  and  a  general  bestowal  of  the 
franchise.  His  long-suffering  hosts  smiled  and  made  him 
welcome,  and  when  he  paused  to  admire,  with  pretty  picked 
words,  the  blossom  of  the  blood-red  dhak-tree  that  had  flow- 
ered untimely  for  a  sign  of  what  was  coming,  they  smiled 
more  than  ever. 

It  was  the  Deputy  Commissioner  of  Kot-Kumharsen,  stay- 
ing at  the  club  for  a  day,  who  lightly  told  a  tale  that  made 
Holden's  blood  run  cold  as  he  overheard  the  end. 

"  He  won't  bother  any  one  any  more.  Never,  saw  a  man 
so  astonished  in  my  life.  By  Jove,  I  thought  he  meant  to 
ask  a  question  in  the  House  about  it.  Fellow  passenger  in 
his  ship — dined  next  him — bowled  over  by  cholera  and  died 
in  eighteen  hours.  You  needn't  laugh,  you  fellows.  The 
Member  for  Lower  Tooting  is  awfully  angry  about  it;  but 
he's  more  scared.  I  think  he's  going  to  take  his  enlightened 
self  out  of  India." 

"  I'd  give  a  good  deal  if  he  were  knocked  over.  It  might 
keep  a  few  vestrymen  of  his  kidney  to  their  own  parish.  But 
what's  this  about  cholera  ?  It's  full  early  for  anything  of  that 
kind,"  said  the  warden  of  an  unprofitable  salt-lick. 

"  Don't  know,"  said  the  Deputy  Commissioner  reflectively. 
"  We've  got  locusts  with  us.  There's  sporadic  cholera  all 
along  the  north — at  least  we're  calling  it  sporadic  for  decen- 


WITHOUT  BENEFIT   OF  CLERGY  5©  I 

cy's  sake.  The  spring  crops  are  short  in  five  districts,  and 
nobody  seems  to  know  where  the  rains  are.  It's  nearly 
March  now.  I  don't  want  to  scare  anybody,  but  it  seems  to 
me  that  Nature's  going  to  audit  her  accounts  with  a  big  red 
pencil  this  summer." 

"  Just  when  I  wanted  to  take  leave,  too !  "  said  a  voice 
across  the  room. 

"There  won't  be  much  leave  this  year,  but  there  ought 
to  be  a  great  deal  of  promotion.  I've  come  in  to  persuade 
the  Government  to  put  my  pet  canal  on  the  list  of  famine- 
relief  works.  It's  an  ill  wind  that  blows  no  good.  I  shall 
get  that  canal  finished  at  last." 

"  Is  it  the  old  programme  then,"  said  Holden ;  "  famine, 
fever,  and  cholera  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no.  Only  local  scarcity  and  an  unusual  prevalence 
of  seasonal  sickness.  You'll  find  it  all  in  the  reports  if  you 
live  till  next  year.  You're  a  lucky  chap.  You  haven't  got 
a  wife  to  send  out  of  harm's  way.  The  hill  stations  ought  to 
be  full  of  women  this  year." 

"  I  think  you're  inclined  to  exaggerate  the  talk  in  the 
bazars/'  said  a  young  civilian  in  the  secretariat.  "  Now  I 
have  observed " 

"  I  daresay  you  have/'  said  the  Deputy  Commissioner, 
"  but  you've  a  great  deal  more  to  observe,  my  son.  In  the 
meantime,  I  wish  to  observe  to  you — "  and  he  drew  him  aside 
to  discuss  the  construction  of  the  canal  that  was  so  dear  to 
his  heart.  Holden  went  to  his  bungalow  and  began  to  under- 
stand that  he  was  not  alone  in  the  world,  and  also  that  he 
was  afraid  for  the  sake  of  another — which  is  the  most  soul- 
satisfying  fear  known  to  man. 

Two  months  later,  as  the  Deputy  had  foretold,  Nature 
began  to  audit  her  accounts  with  a  red  pencil.  On  the  heels 
of  the  spring  reapings  came  a  cry  for  bread,  and  the  Gov- 
ernment, which  had  decreed  that  no  man  should  die  of  want, 
sent  wheat.  Then  came  the  cholera  from  all  four  quarters  of 
the  compass.  It  struck  a  pilgrim-gathering  of  half  a  million 
at  a  sacred  shrine.  Many  died  at  the  feet  of  their  god; 
the  others  broke  and  ran  over  the  face  of  the  land  carrying 
the  pestilence  with  them,  k  smote  a  walled  city  and  killed 
two  hundred  a  day.  The  people  crowded  the  trains,  hanging 
on  to  the  foot-boards  and  squatting  on  the  roofs  of  the  car- 


502  THE   BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

riages,  and  the  cholera  followed  them,  for  at  each  station  they 
dragged  out  the  dead  and  the  dying.  They  died  by  the  road- 
side, and  the  horses  of  the  Englishmen  shied  at  the  corpses 
in  the  grass.  The  rains  did  not  come,  and  the  earth  turned 
to  iron  lest  man  should  escape  death  by  hiding  in  her.  The 
English  sent  their  wives  away  to  the  hills  and  went  about 
their  work,  coming  forward  as  they  were  bidden  to  fill  the 
gaps  in  the  fighting-line.  Holden,  sick  with  fear  of  losing 
his  chiefest  treasure  on  earth,  had  done  his  best  to  per- 
suade Ameera  to  go  away  with  her  mother  to  the  Hima- 
layas. 

"  Why  should  I  go  ?  "  said  she  one  evening  on  the  roof. 

"  There  is  sickness,  and  people  are  dying,  and  all  the  white 
mem-log  have  gone." 

"All  of  them?" 

"  All — unless  perhaps  there  remain  some  old  scald-head 
who  vexes  her  husband's  heart  by  running  risk  of  death." 

"  Nay ;  who  stays  is  my  sister,  and  thou  must  not  abuse 
her,  for  I  will  be  a  scald-head  too.  I  am  glad  all  the  bold 
mem-log  are  gone." 

"  Do  I  speak  to  a  woman,  or  a  babe  ?  Go  to  the  hills  and 
I  will  see  to  it  that  thou  goest  like  a  queen's  daughter.  Think, 
child.  In  a  red-lacquered  bullock-cart,  veiled  and  curtained, 
with  brass  peacocks  upon  the  pole  and  red  cloth  hangings. 
I  will  send  two  orderlies  for  guard,  and " 

"  Peace !  Thou  art  the  babe  in  speaking  thus.  What 
use  are  those  toys  to  me.  He  would  have  patted  the  bullocks 
and  played  with  the  housings.  For  his  sake,  perhaps — thou 
hast  made  me  very  English — I  might  have  gone.  Now,  I  will 
not.    Let  the  mem-log  run." 

"  Their  husbands  are  sending  them,  beloved." 

"  Very  good  talk.  Since  when  hast  thou  been  my  hus- 
band to  tell  me  what  to  do?  I  have  but  borne  thee  a  son. 
Thou  art  only  all  the  desire  of  my  soul  to  me.  How  shall  I 
depart  when  I  know  that  if  evil  befall  thee  by  the  breadth  of 
so  much  as  my  littlest  finger-nail — is  that  not  small  ? — I  should 
be  aware  of  it  though  I  were  in  paradise.  And  here,  this 
summer  thou  mayest  die — ai,  janee,  die !  and  in  dying  they 
might  call  to  tend  thee  a  white  woman,  and  she  would  rob 
me  in  the  last  of  thy  love !" 

"  But  love  is  not  born  in  a  moment  or  on  a  death-bed !  " 


WITHOUT  BENEFIT  OF  CLERGY  So3 

"  What  dost  thou  know  of  love,  stone-heart  ?  She  would 
take  thy  thanks  at  least  and,  by  God  and  the  Prophet  and 
Beebee  Miriam  the  mother  of  thy  Prophet,  that  I  will  never 
endure.  My  lord  and  my  love,  let  there  be  no  more  foolish 
talk  of  going  away.  Where  thou  art,  I  am.  It  is  enough." 
She  put  an  arm  round  his  neck  and -a  hand  on  his  mouth. 

There  are  not  many  happinesses  so  complete  as  those  that 
are  snatched  under  the  shadow  of  the  sword.  They  sat 
together  and  laughed,  calling  each  other  openly  by  every  pet 
name  that  could  move  the  wrath  of  the  gods.  The  city  below 
them  was  locked  up  in  its  own  torments.  Sulphur  fires  blazed 
in  the  streets ;  the  conches  in  the  Hindu  temples  screamed  and 
bellowed,  for  the  gods  were  inattentive  in  those  days.  There 
was  a  service  in  the  great  Mohammedan  shrine,  and  the  call 
to  prayer  from  the  minarets  was  almost  unceasing.  They 
heard  the  wailing  in  the  houses  of  the  dead,  and  once  the 
shriek  of  a  mother  who  had  lost  a  child  and  was  calling  for 
its  return.  In  the  gray  dawn  they  saw  the  dead  borne  out 
through  the  city  gates,  each  litter  with  its  own  little  knot 
of  mourners.  Wherefore  they  kissed  each  other  and  shiv- 
ered. 

It  was  a  red  and  heavy  audit,  for  the  land  was  very  sick 
and  needed  a  little  breathing  space  ere  the  torrent  of  cheap 
life  should  flood  it  anew.  The  children  of  immature  fathers 
and  undeveloped  mothers  made  no  resistance.  They  were 
cowed  and  sat  still,  waiting  till  the  sword  should  be  sheathed 
in  November  if  it  were  so  willed.  There  were  gaps  among 
the  English,  but  the  gaps  were  filled.  The  work  of  superin- 
tending famine-relief,  cholera-sheds,  medicine-distribution, 
and  what  little  sanitation  was  possible,  went  forward  because 
it  was  so  ordered. 

Holden  had  been  told  to  keep  himself  in  readiness  to 
move  to  replace  the  next  man  who  should  fall.  There  were 
twelve  hours  in  each  day  when  he  could  not  see  Ameera, 
and  she  might  die  in  three.  He  was  considering  what  his 
pain  would  be  if  he  could  not  see  her  for  three  months,  or 
if  she  died  out  of  his  sight.  He  was  absolutely  certain  that 
her  death  would  be  demanded — so  certain  that  when  he 
looked  up  from  the  telegram  and  saw  Pir  Khan  breathless 
in  the  doorway,  he  laughed  aloud.    "  And  ?  "  said  he 

"  When  there  is  a  cry  in  the  night  and  the  spirit  flutters 


504      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

into  the  throat,  who  has  a  charm  that  will  restore?  Come 
swiftly,  heaven-born !     It  is  the  black  cholera." 

Holden  galloped  to  his  home.  The  sky  was  heavy  with 
clouds,  for  the  long-deferred  rains  were  near  and  the  heat 
was  stifling.  Ameera's  mother  met  him  in  the  courtyard, 
whimpering :  "  She  is  dying.  She  is  nursing  herself  into 
death.    She  is  all  but  dead.    What  shall  I  do,  sahib  f  " 

Ameera  was  lying  in  the  room  in  which  Tota  had  been 
born.  She  made  no  sign  when  Holden  entered,  because  the 
human  soul  is  a  very  lonely  thing  and,  when  it  is  getting  ready 
to  go  away,  hides  itself  in  a  misty  borderland  where  the  living 
may  not  follow.  The  black  cholera  does  its  work  quietly 
and  without  explanation.  Ameera  was  being  thrust  out  of 
life  as  though  the  Angel  of  Death  had  himself  put  his  hand 
upon  her.  The  quick  breathing  seemed  to  show  that  she  was 
either  afraid  or  in  pain,  but  neither  eyes  nor  mouth  gave 
any  answer  to  Holden's  kisses.  There  was  nothing  to  be 
said  or  done.  Holden  could  only  wait  and  suffer.  The  first 
drops  of  the  rain  began  to  fall  on  the  roof,  and  he  could 
hear  shouts  of  joy  in  the  parched  city. 

The  soul  came  back  a  little  and  the  lips  moved.  Holden 
bent  down  to  listen.  "  Keep  nothing  of  mine,"  said  Ameera. 
"  Take  no  hair  from  my  head.  She  would  make  thee  burn  it 
later  on.  That  flame  I  should  feel.  Lower !  Stoop  lower ! 
Remember  only  that  I  was  thine  and  bore  thee  a  son. 
Though  thou  wed  a  white  woman  to-morrow,  the  pleasure 
of  receiving  in  thy  arms  thy  first  son  is  taken  from  thee  for- 
ever. Remember  me  when  thy  son  is  born — the  one  that 
shall  carry  thy  name  before  all  men.  His  misfortunes  be  on 
my  head.  I  bear  witness — I  bear  witness  " — the  lips  were 
forming  the  words  on  his  ear — "  that  there  is  no  God  but — 
thee,  beloved !  " 

Then  she  died.  Holden  sat  still,  and  all  thought  was 
taken  from  him — till  he  heard  Ameera's  mother  lift  the  cur- 
tain. 

"Isshtdt2.d,sahih?" 

"  She  is  dead." 

"  Then  I  will  mourn,  and  afterwards  take  an  inventory  of 
the  furniture  in  this  house.  For  that  will  be  mine.  The 
sahih  does  not  mean  to  resume  it  ?  It  is  so  little,  so  very  little, 
sahib,  and  I  am  an  old  woman.     I  would  like  to  lie  softly." 


WITHOUT  BENEFIT  OF  CLERGY       5^5 

"  For  the  mercy  of  God  be  silent  a  while.  Go  out  and 
mourn  where  I  cannot  hear." 

"  Sahib,  she  will  be  buried  in  four  hours." 

'*  I  know  the  custom.  I  shall  go  ere  she  is  taken  away. 
That  matter  is  in  thy  hands.  Look  to  it,  that  the  bed  on 
which — on  which  she  lies " 

"  Aha !  That  beautiful  red-lacquered  bed.  I  have  long 
desired— T—" 

"  That  the  bed  is  left  here  untouched  for  my  disposal.  All 
else  in  the  house  is  thine.  Hire  a  cart,  take  everything,  go 
hence,  and  before  sunrise  let  there  be  nothing  in  this  house 
but  that  which  I  have  ordered  thee  to  respect." 

"  I  am  an  old  woman.  I  would  stay  at  least  for  the  days 
of  mourning,  and  the  rains  have  just  broken.  Whither  shall 
Igo?" 

"  What  is  that  to  me?  My  order  is  that  there  is  a  going. 
The  house-gear  is  worth  a  thousand  rupees,  and  my  orderly 
shall  bring  thee  a  hundred  rupees  to-night." 

"  That  is  very  little.    Think  of  the  cart-hire." 

"  It  shall  be  nothing  unless  thou  goest,  and  with  speed. 
O  woman,  get  hence  and  leave  me  with  my  dead !  " 

The  mother  shuffled  down  the  staircase,  and  in  her  anx- 
iety to  take  stock  of  the  house-fittings  forgot  to  mourn.  Hol- 
den  stayed  by  Ameera's  side  and  the  rain  roared  on  the  roof. 
He  could  not  think  connectedly  by  reason  of  the  noise,  though 
he  made  many  attempts  to  do  so.  Then  four  sheeted  ghosts 
glided  dripping  into  the  room  and  stared  at  him  through  their 
veils.  They  were  the  washers  of  the  dead.  Holden  left  the 
room  and  went  out  to  his  horse.  He  had  come  in  a  dead, 
stifling  calm  through  ankle-deep  dust.  He  found  the  court- 
yard a  rain-lashed  pond  alive  with  frogs ;  a  torrent  of  yellow 
water  ran  under  the  gate,  and  a  roaring  wind  drove  the  bolts 
of  the  rain  like  buckshot  against  the  mud  walls.  Pir  Khar 
was  shivering  in  his  little  hut  by  the  gate,  and  the  horse  was 
stamping  uneasily  in  the  water. 

"  I  have  been  told  the  sahib's  order,"  said  Pir  Khan.  "  It 
is  well.  This  house  is  now  desolate.  I  go  also,  for  my 
monkey  face  would  be  a  reminder  of  that  which  has  been. 
Concerning  the  bed,  I  will  bring  that  to  thy  house  yonder  in 
the  morning ;  but  remember,  sahib,  it  will  be  to  thee  a  knife 
burning  in  a  green  wound.  I  go  upon  a  pilgrimage,  and  I 
33 


5o6      THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

will  take  no  money.  I  have  grown  fat  in  the  protection  of  the 
Presence  whose  sorrow  is  my  sorrow.  For  the  last  time  I 
hold  his  stirrup." 

He  touched  Holden's  foot  with  both  hands,  and  the  horse 
sprang  out  into  the  road,  where  the  creaking  bamboos  were 
whipping  the  sky  and  all  the  frogs  were  chuckling.  Holden 
could  not  see  for  the  rain  in  his  face.  He  put  his  hands 
before  his  eyes  and  muttered: 

"  Oh,  you  brute  !    You  utter  brute  !  "       t 

The  news  of  his  trouble  was  already  in  his  bungalow. 
He  read  the  knowledge  in  his  butler's  eyes  when  Ahmed 
Khan  brought  in  food,  and  for  the  first  and  last  time  in  his 
life  laid  a  hand  upon  his  master's  shoulder,  saying:  "Eat, 
sahib,  eat.  Meat  is  good  against  sorrow.  I  also  have  known. 
Moreover  the  shadows  come  and  go,  sahib ;  the  shadows  come 
and  go.    These  be  curried  eggs." 

Holden  could  neither  eat  nor  sleep.  The  heavens  sent 
down  eight  inches  of  rain  in  that  night  and  washed  the  earth 
•clean.  The  waters  tore  down  walls,  broke  roads,  and  scoured 
open  the  shallow  graves  on  the  Mohammedan  burying- 
ground.  All  next  day  it  rained,  and  Holden  sat  still  in  his 
house  considering  his  sorrow.  On  the  morning  of  the  third 
day  he  received  a  telegram  which  said  only :  "  Ricketts,  Myn- 
donie.  Dying.  Holden  reheve.  Immediate."  Then  he  thought 
that  before  he  had  departed  he  would  look  at  the  house  where- 
in he  had  been  master  and  lord.  There  was  a  break  in  the 
weather,  rnd  the  rank  earth  steamed  with  vapour. 

He  found  that  the  rains  had  torn  down  the  mud  pillars  of 
the  gateway,  and  the  heavy  wooden  gate  that  had  guarded 
his  life  hung  lazily  from  one  hinge.  There  was  grass  three 
inches  high  in  the  courtyard;  Pir  Khan's  lodge  was  empty» 
and  the  sodden  thatch  sagged  between  the  beams.  A  gray 
squirrel  was  in  possession  of  the  veranda,  as  if  the  house  had 
been  untenanted  for  thirty  years  instead  of  three  days. 
Ameera's  mother  had  removed  everything  except  some  mil- 
dewed matting.  The  tick-tick  of  the  little  scorpions  as  they 
hurried  across  the  floor  was  the  only  sound  in  the  house. 
Ameera's  room  and  the  other  one  where  Tota  had  lived  were 
heavy  with  mildew;  and  the  narrow  staircase  leading  to  the 
roof  was  streaked  and  stained  with  rain-borne  mud.  Holden 
saw  all  these  things,  and  came  out  again  to  meet  in  the  road 


WITHOUT  BENEFIT  OF  CLERGY  507 

Durga  Dass,  his  landlord — portly,  affable,  clothed  in  white 
muslin,  and  driving  a  C-spring  buggy.  He  was  overlooking 
his  property  to  see  how  the  roofs  stood  the  stress  of  the 
first  rains. 

"  I  have  heard,"  said  he,  "  you  will  not  take  this  place  any 
more,  sahib  f" 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  it  ?  " 
"  Perhaps  I  shall  let  it  again." 
"  Thefi  I  will  keep  i.t  on  while  I  am  away." 
Durga  Dass  was  silent  for  some  time.     "  You  shall  not 
take  it  on,  sahib/'  he  said.     "  When  I  was  a  young  man  I 
also —    But  to-day  I  am  a  member  of  the  Municipality.    Ho ! 
Ho  !    No.    When  the  birds  have  gone,  what  need  to  keep  the 
nest?     I  will  have  it  pulled  down — the  timber  will  sell  for 
something  always.     It  shall  be  pulled  down,  and  the  Munici- 
pality shall  make  a  road  across,  as  they  desire,  from  the  burn- 
ing-ghaut to  the  city  wall,  so  that  no  man  may  say  where  this 
house  stood." 


(11) 


THE  END 


14  DAY  USE 

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